Old Places Rediscovered
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke and Leslie relive a few fantasies involving settings around the island, places Leslie is beginning to consider for new uses now that she has succeeded in Roarke's position following his enforced retirement. See my last story, "Passage", for references if necessary.
1. Chapter 1

§ § § - April 6, 2012

It had been a busy Friday for Christian and Leslie and their family. Roarke was back for a visit, so that he could assist with some immigration matters—in fact, he had just that afternoon met one of the latest arrivals, who belonged to his own clan—and spend some downtime with his daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren. Though there were many other issues on their minds, there was one thing the triplets insisted on: they wanted their mother and grandfather to spend at least one evening retelling stories of the old days, when Leslie was still in high school and Tattoo had been Roarke's assistant.

Roarke and Leslie finally consented to do this on a spring Friday, when the triplets wouldn't have to be up early the next day for school, and he came to the Enstad house for supper with his family. Christian's nephew Roald, who was also on the island for a protracted period after splitting from his wife, Arcolos' Princess Adriana, had joined them with his three young sons, Staffan, Johan-Erik and Markus. Afterward, with the children enjoying bowls of ice cream around the coffee table in the living room, Roarke studied the triplets with a smile. "And what stories are you three interested in hearing your mother and me tell tonight?"

"We having sto-wees?" Anastasia asked, perking up. She enjoyed being read to as much as her brother and sisters did. "Me go get a book?"

"Not from a book, sweetie," Leslie said, grinning. "These are stories about when I was a girl. Not a little girl, but not grown up yet." She looked up at Roald. "I think there was one in particular that you wanted us to tell."

"That's right." The thirty-two-year-old prince turned to Roarke. "Aunt Leslie told the barebones story to me and Uncle Christian a while back, about the village we're living in, where the clan immigrants are settling. She said it's been abandoned for years, and that there was some kind of curse on the former inhabitants. We've started cleaning and beautifying the place, and I keep wondering about the people who used to live there. What were they like, and what happened to them all?"

Roarke settled himself more comfortably in his chair and smiled. "Ah, yes...I recall precisely the people you're speaking of. Leslie may have told you that they were very insular, and they did not welcome outsiders—not even other islanders." Roald nodded, and Roarke cast Leslie a glance before clearing his throat. "As to what happened to them—that's a tale we can tell you right now."

"By all means, go ahead," Christian urged. "I must admit to being curious myself."

"It happened when I was in my last year of high school," said Leslie. "I was maybe a couple of months away from my graduation and already trying to get more involved with the fantasies, anticipating taking a bigger role in Father's operations. But there were still some fantasies that weirded me out, even before Tattoo left and Lawrence took over and kind of dragged in a whole boatload of major changes along with him. This was one of the weird ones..."

§ § § - March 19, 1983

Standing in their usual places awaiting the arrival of their latest guests, Leslie watched the attendants moor the plane into place and pop the hatch while Roarke motioned the band and dancers into action and buttoned his suit jacket. Right on cue, a tall blond man stepped out; he had the sort of youthful face that made him look naive and too trusting. "Ah," said Roarke, "Mr. Carl Peters, a travel agent from Philadelphia."

"Oh, that sounds like a fun profession," commented Leslie.

"Sure does," Tattoo agreed. "What's his fantasy?"

Roarke half-smiled. "Apparently, he is obsessed with finding a beautiful young woman."

"Aren't we all?" said Tattoo with a conspiratorial grin.

"Speak for yourself," Leslie suggested, folding her arms over her chest.

Roarke chuckled and said, "Perhaps, Tattoo. But this particular young woman ran away before he could discover his true feelings for her."

Leslie peered curiously at her guardian while Tattoo asked hopefully, "Will he find her? Will he fall in love?"

"Oh yes, Tattoo," murmured Roarke, in a tone that snared Leslie's attention and raised a stew of dread in her gut. "So much so that he may even be willing to die for her."

Tattoo frowned at that, and Leslie shook her head slightly, wondering how it would feel to love that deeply, before the Frenchman's attention was distracted by a blonde woman in a blue dress, wearing an expression of beaming excitement. "Oh, boss, here comes my old friend Susan!"

"Your old friend?" echoed Leslie.

Tattoo nodded, and Roarke explained, "Yes, Miss Susan Henderson, the young woman who saved him from a runaway taxicab in Paris years ago."

"That's right," Tattoo said smugly, "and if it wasn't for her, he wouldn't have a terrific assistant like me." Leslie snorted and reached behind Roarke to swat Tattoo lightly on the shoulder; Roarke tossed him one quick look and nod, gave Leslie a mildly quelling glance and cleared his throat slightly.

"Yes...so in gratitude, you have arranged a fantasy for her—to make a man she has loved from afar fall in love with her," he said.

"Well, it's simple, isn't it, boss?" Tattoo queried.

"We shall see, Tattoo," Roarke hedged calmly, with no more than one further glance at him. "We shall see." Leslie watched their expressions for a few more seconds, but when neither of them spoke again, she found herself looking forward to seeing exactly what would happen. Roarke received his champagne, toasted their new guests, and took in their reactions; Leslie and Tattoo peered at each other, suspecting it was going to be a very interesting weekend.

‡ ‡ ‡

At the main house, there was little time for further preparation before Carl Peters arrived for his appointment, looking hopeful and excited all at once, as so many had done before him. He shook hands with Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie, then took a seat in one of the white-satin-upholstered club chairs in front of the desk. "So, not to skip the niceties and all that...but when can I start my fantasy? When can I go see Hallie?"

"Mr. Peters, it's important that I know just how strong your feelings for Ms. Miller are," Roarke said after a moment, studying the earnest young man. "Are you certain you're in _love_ with her?"

Peters got that look about him that suggested Roarke couldn't hope to have the first clue about the true depth of his emotions, the faintly condescending expression that said, _You poor man, not even a_ _hint_ _of knowledge._ "Mr. Roarke, since the day she disappeared, all I can think about is finding her again." He smiled a little. "Yes, I'm certain. Can you help me?"

"Yes, I believe I can," Roarke said briskly. "I've discovered that Ms. Miller has returned home, to a small village here on the island. A village that has a very..." He hesitated, no doubt fully aware that all eyes were on him. "...a very peculiar history."

"What do you mean, boss?" Tattoo asked, perplexed.

"The original settlers of the town came from New England long, long ago; they were a very rigid, puritanical people then. In 1692 it seems they held a witch trial; and the woman they accused was burned at the stake." He met Leslie's startled glance, well aware of the parallel this carried with her own family history, before taking in Carl Peters' slight frown.

"That's terrible," Tattoo said, distressed.

"Yes, it is, Tattoo," agreed Roarke, rising from his chair and rounding the desk, squeezing Leslie's shoulder along the way as he often did. "Ever since then, there have been rumors of other strange events, unexplained phenomena—"

Peters broke in with low-voiced impatience. "I don't care about anything that happened almost three hundred years ago. All I really want is to find Hallie."

Roarke regarded him, with one accepting shrug of his eyebrows, and acceded coolly, "Very well, Mr. Peters. If you'll follow Tattoo..."

"Please, this way," Tattoo said, gesturing out the French shutters, and started out as Peters arose and hurried around the desk to trail him out. Roarke and Leslie brought up the rear, crossing the terrace to where a car waited. Tattoo unearthed some keys from a jacket pocket and handed it to Peters. "Here's your car, and here's your key."

"Just follow the road, Mr. Peters," Roarke added. "The town is about fifteen miles from here, going west on the main road that circles the island. You won't have any trouble finding Ms. Miller; everyone there knows her." His expression sobered, giving Peters just enough pause to make him regard his host for a few seconds. But, somewhat to Leslie's disappointment, their guest was clearly too single-minded to ask any more questions. Instead, he turned to Tattoo and thanked him, shaking his hand and then Roarke's, before nodding to Leslie and getting into the car. They stood there and watched him ease the car across the grass at the northern side of the house, where some dead palms had recently been clear-cut and the beginnings of a garden staked out, before gaining the dirt lane in front of the house and driving out of sight down it.

"That's the village near the elementary school, isn't it?" Leslie asked, speaking only after the car had vanished. "The one we always drive straight through without stopping if we have to go beyond the resort."

Roarke nodded. "The utility buildings are located just south of their town square," he said. "I believe a few of the villagers work there, but most of the employees are other island residents, and the two groups have very little to do with each other. The villagers have a great distrust of outsiders, even those who also live here. It goes back to their original settlement, as I understand it. The natives had their own gods, which of course were pagan nonsense at best to the settlers. The two groups were, in any case, so fundamentally different each from the other that they stayed well apart forever after. It's been only in recent decades, since modernization measures were introduced here, that there has been any intermingling, and that only under duress." He sighed and gestured back toward the French shutters, a signal for Tattoo and Leslie to precede him inside. "Had the villagers their druthers, they would have preferred to maintain their isolation. But it so happened that their location was the most suitable one on which to build the plants for the power utility and the water and sewer services for the island. Only a handful of the villagers were willing to take jobs there, and it was necessary for others from around the island to fill the rest of the positions. It's my understanding that they still go out of their way to avoid each other, in every way they can help doing so."

"It sounds to me like they're hiding something," Tattoo commented. "I mean, I can understand wanting privacy, but they're really going all out to maintain theirs."

"I have left them to their own devices," Roarke observed, pausing in front of the desk to open the ornamental gold box atop it where he kept keys to the jeeps and rovers. "They have abided by island laws at least, and they keep to themselves. But the world is changing too much, too quickly, and perhaps the time has come for them to join it." He chose a key and took in the looks Leslie and Tattoo exchanged, then smiled faintly. "Well, shall we? Miss Henderson is waiting."

They picked up the blonde at her bungalow and brought her back to the main house, where by now the kitchen staff, headed by Mana'olana, had set up a small table with four chairs, a silver tea service, three porcelain cups and saucers in translucent white, and a crystal mug of mango nectar for Leslie. By then Tattoo and Susan Henderson had had a cheerful reunion and a brief chance to chat, and Leslie was looking forward to finding out more. They all took seats around the table.

"Tattoo thought you might enjoy a spot of tea," suggested Roarke with a smile.

"How nice," murmured Susan, in a breathy, sweet, somewhat high-pitched voice that gave the impression that she wasn't especially bright. Leslie kept this to herself, though, and simply waited to hear what might be revealed during this little tea party.

"Now then, Ms. Henderson," said Roarke expansively, sitting down. "This, uh, man you wish to have fall in love with you...who might he be?" He gathered a rosy-red cloth napkin in his hands as he spoke, preparing to spread it across his lap.

Beaming with bashful self-consciousness, Susan told him, "His name is Carter Ransom."

Roarke's smile vanished and he stilled, staring at her with a hint of startled disbelief in his dark eyes. Leslie blinked twice in pure surprise, watching her guardian shoot one narrow-eyed look across the table at Tattoo. "Uh-oh," she murmured, mostly to herself.

"The concert pianist?" Roarke demanded.

Susan nodded, wide-eyed, as if she had gathered the depth of Roarke's incredulity; but before she could speak, Tattoo put in, "Yes, he's here on the island. He's staying in the Lilac Bungalow."

"Yes, I know," Roarke reminded him, before turning to Susan and adding, "Mr. Ransom is preparing for an upcoming recital in New York." His voice cooled gradually as he spoke, and Susan lowered her gaze in consternation, obviously cowed by his disapproval. "You see, he's had trouble concentrating on his work, and he's come to Fantasy Island for peace and quiet, Tattoo." His reproving regard shifted to his assistant as he concluded his speech.

"Well, maybe he needs some inspiration," said Tattoo, nothing daunted. "And what could be more inspirational than love?" He gestured toward Susan, brightening as he uttered the last word.

"Peace and quiet, maybe," Leslie offered, eyeing Tattoo. "That's what always worked for me."

"You're not even eighteen yet, and you've never been in love. Don't dismiss it when you don't know what you're talking about," Tattoo said, raising his chin a bit.

Leslie sat back in her chair and glared at him, arms folded over her chest again; Roarke shook his head. "That will do, thank you both very much." He lifted his cup and prepared to take a sip.

"I _could_ help, Mr. Roarke," Susan ventured, arresting his motion, exchanging a glance with Tattoo that looked conspiratorial to Leslie. "I first saw him perform two years ago. He's everything I ever dreamed of in a man." She spoke to her teacup, as if reluctant to meet anyone else's gaze.

"Please?" Tattoo put in. "She's got everything that Mr. Ransom needs." _Like what?_ Leslie wanted to ask, but this time she held her tongue.

To Leslie's surprise, Roarke gave in without further objection. "You do realize, Miss Henderson, that your fantasy will last only two days." Susan looked startled by this, then downcast, as Roarke added gravely, "After that, Mr. Ransom will no longer be in love with you. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Susan raised her dark eyes with a wistful, dreamy smile. "For once, I want to experience the kind of passion I've read about, even if it lasts for only a weekend."

Roarke's expression was extremely dubious. "Very well, Miss Henderson, if that's what you really want," he agreed reluctantly, gaze on the tabletop as though waiting for it to concur with his doubt. Then he seemed to come to terms with it and gestured at the Frenchman. "Tattoo?"

Tattoo picked up a small clear crystal box with a hinged lid and extended his arm as far across the table as it would go, while Roarke eyed Susan with that lingering misgiving and Leslie looked on. Roarke took the box and raised its lid. "Thank you. This is a very special ring, Miss Henderson," he began, withdrawing it from its nest while Susan, Leslie and Tattoo watched avidly. He held out a hand and Susan extended her right hand, whereupon Roarke pushed the ring onto the third finger. "When you wear it, any man you touch with your ring hand will fall immediately and passionately in love with you." He lifted her hand, still resting in his, and covered it and the ring with his other hand, then closed his eyes for a few seconds as if in concentration. Leslie wondered if he got some sort of minor electrical jolt or something, for his brows popped up as though with surprise before he lifted the hand lying atop Susan's and peered underneath it at the ring. Sure enough, the large, clear oval jewel set in it was glinting brightly, blinking on and off like a decorative stage lightbulb. Susan withdrew her hand to examine the ring, and Roarke nodded, as if it were all settled.

Then he added, "However..." and all three of them froze to stare at him. "It will work only once—so you must be extremely careful."

Susan bobbed her head eagerly. "Oh, I will, Mr. Roarke, I will," she exclaimed, now bubbling over with delighted anticipation. "When can I go and meet Mr. Ransom?"

"Tattoo will take you to him," Roarke said, "but..." He fixed a stern gaze on his assistant. "If Mr. Ransom is busy practicing, don't disturb him. Wait until he is in a public area, at the very least, and you may then inquire as to his well-being and introduce Miss Henderson at that time. All right?"

"Got it, boss," Tattoo agreed, nodding. "Come on, Susan, let's see where he is now."

Roarke contemplated his teacup while Leslie watched Tattoo and Susan walk off the terrace and disappear down the path that led to the bungalows. "Well," she said after she was sure they were out of earshot, "there's another promise just waiting to be broken." She pitched her voice high and breathy in imitation. " 'Oh, I will, Mr. Roarke, I will!' " Catching Roarke's gaze, which had taken on a hint of amusement, she shook her head. "They always say they'll be careful, and they never are. If she botches things up with that ring, you really should leave it just the way it ends up. Maybe then she'd fall in love with somebody a lot more accessible than Carter Ransom."

"Indeed?" inquired Roarke, a grin beginning to form on his face. "Has it not occurred to you that perhaps the rich and famous are entitled to have love matches as well?"

"Yeah, well, rich and famous people have no trouble finding love," Leslie scoffed, shaking her head. "Their fans always wind up daydreaming about how they could be that one special person that the celebrity's been waiting his entire life to meet. Of course, that never happens, you know. They end up with people who are just as rich as they are, if not famous. I wonder why nobody ever wants to find love with some nice ordinary working stiff from Dubuque, Iowa, or someplace like that. They always want the famous, glamorous ones. The pretty people."

By the time she finished, Roarke was chuckling. "That may be, but what you say makes it more than plain that Tattoo was correct in his assessment of your knowledge of love. You have a great deal yet to learn, my dear Leslie. Now if you would, please, come inside with me, and clear the mail off my desk so that I have some room to work in my accounting ledger."

She agreed, but before long he noticed that she wasn't as absorbed in the task as she usually was. When he noticed that she had gone through only ten letters in half an hour, he turned to her, his movement catching her attention. "What's on your mind, Leslie?"

"That village," she admitted. "Susan Henderson is Tattoo's project, so I'm not so worried about that—though I admit to wondering who she'll actually end up with." She returned his smile before sobering again. "But that village...there aren't that many people there, are there?"

"Perhaps two hundred or so," Roarke said.

Leslie's eyes widened under furrowed brows. "But...you said they refuse to have anything to do with outsiders." At his quizzical nod, she protested, "Well then, how in the world have they kept up the population of the place without, well...you know, inbreeding?"

Roarke eyed her sidelong. "They haven't, I'm sorry to say. I don't suppose you've ever met anyone from that village who attends your school."

"No, I don't think so," Leslie said.

He nodded. "They homeschool exclusively. They have their own curriculum and simply refuse to send their young people to the island schools. It isn't for lack of attempt on the part of the constabulary and the island council to get them to obey the truancy laws, but homeschooling isn't any more illegal here than it is in other countries, so there wasn't exactly a legal leg for us to stand on. It was our opinion that it might be healthier for their young people to be exposed to the wider world; but clearly, they disagree."

"Do you think they'll do something to that guy, to Mr. Peters, when they find out he's hunting around for Hallie Miller?" Leslie asked.

Roarke settled back in his chair and let his gaze drift into the distance, a troubled look creasing his features. "I have no doubt whatsoever that they will."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § - March 19, 1983

A little after lunch, Leslie and Roarke retreated into the study to resume the paperwork; Leslie had had some trouble concentrating on the mail, but finally managed to get into it. There were too many mysteries surrounding that little village—which Roarke had said was called "Glen Hollow" by its inhabitants—for her to simply dismiss the whole thing till it was time for Carl Peters' fantasy to come to an end. In point of fact, the existence of that village had bothered her for some time. She and her friends rode the shuttle bus back and forth to school most days, and since Glen Hollow lay on the route there and back, they passed through its village square every morning and afternoon. She was thus reasonably familiar with its layout, and found herself reflecting that for the most part, Glen Hollow didn't look a whole lot like a New England village. The houses were a bit different, she thought; as far as she could tell, the only thing that bore a real resemblance to the places she had known in her early childhood in Connecticut was the tall-steepled white church.

The place seemed a bit backward, too; she could recall several occasions on which their bus had circumnavigated the square and she'd seen a couple of horse-and-carriage rigs on the other side. There had been a car or two as well, but models whose vintage was older than she was. On the northern side of the square, just east of the large brick courthouse on the corner, there was a small lane that dead-ended just short of a cliff abutting the ocean. There were little Craftsman-style bungalows lining this lane; surrounding the rest of the square were small, narrow buildings with shops fronting the sidewalk and apartments on the upper floors. There were a few more such buildings just west of the courthouse; the Ring Road continued on the western side of the square, running out of Glen Hollow into the tropical jungle that held sway over much of the island, though on the square's southwestern corner another street branched away to the south, containing three or four houses before there was a slight curve to the west and you reached the power company on the one side of the road and the water and sewer building on the other. The street dead-ended there. On the eastern side of the square there were no houses; the trees began immediately upon exiting the square on that side. Going west on the Ring Road, there were several large houses on either side, before the jungle closed in once more. So it wasn't a large village; but there was a forbidding aura about it that made Leslie frown and consider the way she and her friends had reacted to the place the first time they'd ridden through on the bus. That had been on the first day of ninth grade, and as they had ridden through Glen Hollow, there had been a peculiar silence on the part of Leslie's friends.

"What's wrong?" she had asked.

"This place," Myeko said, casting Leslie a solemn look. "It's spooky. The people who live here don't ever mix with the rest of us. They don't like anybody else coming here."

"We just go down here because the Ring Road runs through this place," Camille put in. "But I swear, sometimes when we see people around this square, they glare at us like they want us to drop dead or something."

"Didn't Mr. Roarke tell you about it?" Michiko had asked.

"No," Leslie said, biting her lip. "I guess he didn't see the need."

"Well," Lauren said, "you probably won't have any real reason to worry about it, unless maybe there's a fantasy here someday or something. And you never know. But I tell you what, unless you want to be run out of town, you don't want to come here. The people are just plain weird. They want nothing to do with the rest of the islanders, and the feeling's mutual."

Leslie was still remembering that conversation now when the door opened and Tattoo came in, Susan Henderson in tow. Tattoo looked worried and Susan distressed. Roarke looked up from the ledger and watched them approach the desk. "May I help you?" he inquired. "I hope there isn't a problem, Tattoo."

"Well, there kind of is," Tattoo admitted.

Roarke waited; but Susan fidgeted and Tattoo turned to look up at her, as if expecting her to take the initiative and say something. At last Roarke prompted, "Well?"

Susan hung her head, so Tattoo let out a sigh and gave up. "We had lunch at the new lounge restaurant, and we were making a plan to have Susan meet Carter Ransom. Well, before we could leave, we saw him come in with some woman. Susan decided she just had to go and meet him, and she got up to do it, but then some guy stopped her and I guess he was trying to come on to her. She tried to get away, but he grabbed her hand—the one with the ring—and fell in love with her."

"Oh, I see," Roarke mused, looking thoughtful.

"Oops," murmured Leslie.

"Exactly," Tattoo said, nodding at her.

Susan finally raised her head, her desperation overcoming her reticence. "Please, Mr. Roarke, I need help. There wasn't anything Tattoo could do."

"This is a most unfortunate situation, Miss Henderson," Roarke said. "As I told you before, the ring can be used only once."

Susan fiddled with the ring. "I know, but—" Something distracted her and Leslie saw her attention shift to a point behind Roarke; at the same time she heard a slight rustling. Leslie twisted around in her chair and saw a cute but rather dowdy young man emerge from his squatting position behind a bush, raising a large white posterboard sign on which was printed _I LOVE YOU!_ in huge block letters—followed by the same sentiment in Spanish, French, German, Hawaiian and even Chinese. _Well, that figures,_ she thought, and turned back around in time to see Susan roll her eyes in annoyance at the poor besotted fellow.

Roarke, though, seemed not to notice anything amiss and said with some regret, "In any case, I'm afraid your fantasy has come to an unscheduled end." Susan let out a deflated sigh.

"But boss, it was an accident," Tattoo protested. "It can happen to anyone!"

"Nevertheless, Tattoo, my hands are tied," Roarke said firmly, while the madly grinning young man on the terrace grabbed another handmade sign. The noise he made doing it caused Leslie to turn around again to watch him, in time to see him raise the second sign, which read _WILL YOU MARRY ME?_ Susan scowled, closed her eyes briefly in exasperation and glared at the fellow, shaking her head. His grin collapsed and he ducked back behind the bush, presumably for yet another sign.

Meantime Roarke and Tattoo argued, apparently oblivious. "Getting a second chance—isn't that what Fantasy Island is all about?" Tattoo persisted. "Besides, I've got a plan." He started to speak, then caught himself, his attention finally snared by Susan's unwanted swain on the terrace—who now was holding up a sign that read, _HOW ABOUT A CHEAP, MEANINGLESS AFFAIR?_ Susan made another face, deflating the young man again. Leslie had to hide a smirk behind her hand.

"Yes, Tattoo?" Roarke prompted when his assistant paused.

Tattoo seemed to decide the young man wasn't worth bothering with. "Why don't we have a reception for Mr. Ransom, so that Susan can get close to him?"

Roarke considered it for a moment; then nodded a little, taken with the suggestion. "That's a very interesting idea, Tattoo," he remarked. "And you're right," he went on as Tattoo beamed in delight at Roarke's approval, "everyone deserves a second chance." He arose, smiling, while Leslie kept checking the terrace in case Susan's suitor tried again. "Well now, if you'll hold out your hand, please?" Susan extended her hand and Roarke thanked her, taking it and performing the same ritual to "charge" the ring that he had done on the terrace that morning.

Susan watched anxiously; after a few seconds Roarke peered beneath his hand, and both he and Leslie saw the gleam of the ring again. Roarke smiled reassuringly at Susan and released her hand.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Roarke, thank you very much," Susan exclaimed with heartfelt gratitude.

Roarke nodded graciously to her in reply; then he fixed Tattoo with a stern look and prodded, "You realize, Tattoo, that the success of Miss Henderson's fantasy is now _your_ responsibility."

Having heard that, Leslie found herself anticipating Tattoo's next words, and sure enough, he fulfilled her expectations. Shrugging confidently, he replied, "It's a piece of cake, boss." With that, he urged Susan out the door, and Roarke and Leslie watched them depart.

"Geez," Leslie muttered and tossed a glance out the French shutters. "You should've seen it. This whole time there was some goofy-looking guy out there holding up signs at Miss Henderson, saying he loved her and asking her to marry him, and when she shook her head, he wanted to know if she'd have a cheap affair with him. I can't believe you missed all that."

"Who says I missed it?" Roarke asked, giving her a surprised look.

She stared at him, then rolled her eyes and groaned. "After all the fantasies I've watched you grant, and all the stuff I've seen you do, I guess I should know better by now, shouldn't I." She shook her head as amusement made Roarke's dark eyes twinkle. Leslie tossed a glance toward the door and added with a heavy sigh, "Tattoo and his 'piece of cake' fantasy. Really, I'm half expecting him to grab Susan by the wrong hand and end up falling in love with her himself."

Roarke had sat back down, and chuckled softly to himself as he watched her resume her seat and pluck another letter off the top of the stack. In truth, he couldn't say he'd be especially surprised himself if that turned out to be what happened.

When Leslie had finished the mail, Roarke thanked her before picking up the phone and making a call to the Lilac Bungalow, spending a good ten minutes persuading Carter Ransom to make an appearance at a specially arranged reception for him that evening in the same lounge restaurant Tattoo and Susan had had lunch in. By the time he finally succeeded and hung up, Leslie had been watching him for the last half of the call, looking astonished. "Well, he sure was a tough nut to crack, wasn't he?" she remarked. "It took you practically forever to make him say yes."

Roarke smiled a little grimly. "After that," he said, "Tattoo had better hope this plan of his comes to fruition. I think that, just in case, you and I both should be there."

That made her perk up. "Does that mean we get to dress up?"

He grinned. "It certainly does. Perhaps choosing your gown for the evening will get your mind off the riddle of Glen Hollow, hm?"

"Only for a while," she retorted, already getting to her feet. "I'm still going to expect to find out just what the story really is behind that place." She gave him one firm nod before rushing off to poke through Roarke's stock of costumes and ballgowns. Again he found himself chuckling quietly, shaking his head after her. The truth was that he liked her enthusiasm and persistence; it bespoke her love of the job she held and her willingness to be an integral part of his business and learn all she could about it. He arose himself, needing to handle a few small chores before he himself dressed for the reception.

‡ ‡ ‡

The reception was going off well, though Roarke and Leslie could see even from all the way across the room that Carter Ransom was less than thrilled to be there. Standing at his side was a dark-haired woman wearing a long white dress printed with softly smeared blobs of blue, green, yellow and purple; there were white flowers crowning her head in front of the upsweep of hair piled atop her head. She was gazing across the lounge as if waiting to defend the pianist from anyone who might dare approach him. Leslie, who hadn't known about Carter Ransom's companion, wondered how Susan Henderson expected to get around her.

Tattoo and Susan appeared at the top of the steps that led into the sunken lounge from the lobby in the front of the building, and he led his friend straight to Ransom and his companion, clearly making introductions. Leslie and Roarke watched Susan stick out her right hand to be shaken, only to be interrupted by one of the native girls who was serving drinks. Ransom's companion reached for one of them, causing Susan to hastily withdraw her hand. Leslie grunted softly. "Wow, she almost had him there," she muttered. Roarke said nothing, but she could see his frown from the corner of her eye.

Ransom gestured toward a table and they all took seats, at the same moment a determined-looking woman brushed past Roarke and Leslie from the back where the restrooms were located. Leslie's attention was snared by the movement, and she watched as the woman, followed by a tuxedoed man eating an hors d'oeuvre and wearing a resigned expression.

Suddenly the woman stopped and gasped loudly enough for Leslie to hear, then exclaimed, "There he is!" Leslie followed her gaze and realized that she was staring at the back of Susan's unwelcome suitor from earlier that day. He was clad in a baby-blue tux and standing in the same spot, gazing steadily at Susan Henderson. Leslie could just imagine the expression he must be wearing.

The threesome had a low-voiced conversation while Roarke's attention shifted to them as well; Leslie peered at him. "Who are they?"

"I believe the man and woman are his parents," said Roarke, just as the man made a come-on gesture and led his son over to the table where Tattoo, Susan, Ransom and Ransom's friend were sitting. "And I'm afraid they're all going to make things very difficult for Miss Henderson if she isn't careful."

"Are you going to do anything about it?" Leslie wanted to know.

"The fantasy is in Tattoo's hands," he said simply, and she let out a sigh. Nothing more needed to be said; she could see disaster coming already.

Susan leaned over suddenly, and they looked back at the table just in time to see both the older man and Carter Ransom follow suit. They all appeared to be trying to pick up something from the floor. The older man won out, and Susan visibly froze in her chair; even from where they stood, both Roarke and Leslie saw the ring gleam bright for a second before the man's demeanor changed altogether, his face taking on the same lovesick look his son had been wearing all day. Leslie let out a long sigh. "Oh, great," she muttered.

"Henry!" exclaimed the woman.

"Dad!" blustered the young man, outraged. "No, she's mine!" His mother muttered to herself.

Susan stood up and exclaimed, "Oh, look, there's a mistake!..." Henry said something else, but they couldn't hear above the music and chatter throughout the lounge. Susan shook her head and began to run for the steps; Henry took off after her, and while Ransom and his friend watched in perplexity, Brian and his mother joined the chase. All four of them were nattering all the way up the steps and out; at the table, Tattoo dropped his elbow beside his plate and rested his head in his hand.

"So now what happens?" Leslie asked, turning to Roarke.

"The inevitable, most likely," Roarke replied, sounding a little tired, and tossed one more glance in Tattoo's direction before signaling at her to come with him.

She was a little bewildered, trailing him out of the lounge and to the rover they had driven here from the main house. "What happens now?" she asked. "I mean...I'm sure they're all going to show up at the main house sooner or later. Or at least Susan will, and you know she'll want you to recharge that ring again, like you did this afternoon."

Roarke gave her a thoughtful look. "That's as may be, but I've watched you attempting the entire day to puzzle out the story of Glen Hollow." With her attention now riveted on him, he leaned out the driver's side opening and gazed into the sky, where a moon rode high. "It's past eleven," he mused, without checking his gold watch. "See if there's a flashlight in the glove compartment, Leslie."

She checked and found one inside, clicking it on to test it. "So what'll we need it for?"

"You'll see," said Roarke, starting the car, putting it in gear and driving west along the Ring Road. Since Glen Hollow was so isolated from the other settled places on the island, the ride seemed to take longer than it really did; but soon they had pulled into the little village square and parked the rover beside a high iron picket fence that surrounded a small green, containing a gazebo and a squat stone obelisk perhaps seven or eight feet tall. The moonlight gleamed off a plaque mounted on the north-facing side of the monument; Leslie squinted, but at this distance she couldn't read it.

Roarke got out of the rover and Leslie did the same, astonished at the peculiar eddying chill in the air that was so out of place on a tropical island. "Do you feel that cold air?" she demanded in a tense whisper, coming to a halt beside him. "Why is it so cold in a tropical place like this?"

Roarke glanced at her but said nothing, and she made a face but decided not to push the issue. She watched him scan the little square, then peered around it herself, noting that the car they had lent Carl Peters for the weekend was parked on the south side of the square in front of the church, which seemed to dominate that side of the street as if cowing the other buildings.

Then Roarke laid a hand lightly on her back and gestured toward the church. "Come with me," he said. "If Mr. Peters is around here, it may be wise to try to speak with him."

They crossed the square and rounded the corner on which the church stood, passing the building before veering into the thick woods just behind it. Roarke, taking the flashlight, clicked it on and probed the darkness with it, stepping carefully but briskly along, as if he knew where he was going. It took a few minutes of penetrating some of the blackest forest Leslie thought she'd ever set foot in, but then they came out into a clearing where the moon picked out patchwork patterns on the ground and the air swirled with heavy mist that seemed to reflect the lunar glow. The unnatural chill persisted, and Leslie shuddered, hugging herself as the dampness penetrated her clothes.

"Here," said Roarke suddenly, training the flashlight on a row of gravestones. Leslie counted six, most of them looking weatherbeaten, but one gleaming brand-new and golden in the flashlight's beam. The new one, nearest which they stood, headed an empty rectangular pit in the ground and bore the legend _CARL PETERS_ , and under it the dates _1956 – 1983._ Leslie stared at it in shock.

"Did they kill him?" she gasped.

"No, but they will," Roarke replied solemnly. "Unless Mr. Peters takes extreme care, the villagers will kill him."

"What for?" Leslie demanded. "What'd he do to them?"

"Nothing," said Roarke, "which is all the more tragic." He studied the various graves; the earliest of them, Leslie noticed, dated back to the early eighteenth century, making her wonder just how long these people had lived here—longer even than Roarke, she thought uneasily.

"Then why?" she persisted.

"There is, supposedly, a curse on Hallie Miller's family," Roarke told her. "Hallie has an older brother, Ethan, and a younger sister, Jamie. They are affected as well. Did you see the monument in the village square?"

"The one with the plaque?" Leslie asked.

"Yes. It marks the spot where a woman named Suzanna Martin was burned at the stake in June of 1692 for practicing witchcraft. Suzanna put a curse on the Miller family, which decreed that when the oldest daughter in each generation reaches her twenty-first birthday, an epidemic of plague breaks out. According to the curse, a young man enters her life; they fall in love, upon which the villagers shoot an arrow through the man's heart, thus curing the plague outbreak."

Leslie's mouth hung open. "That's...that's just..." She groped for a word and finally came out with, "Medieval."

"It has already begun," said Roarke, making her wonder idly how he knew, though she knew better than to ask him. "Hallie's younger sister Jamie—only fifteen—has contracted plague symptoms, and Mr. Peters' life is in grave danger." He shook his head. "I had hoped to find him outside, perhaps persuade him to return to the resort where the villagers won't venture. Unfortunately, it was clear enough the moment we drove into the square that no one is out at this hour."

"There's no reason for them to be," Leslie muttered. "For that matter, the same thing goes for us. Come on, Mr. Roarke, please, let's get out of this creepy place."

Roarke nodded after a moment, playing the flashlight over the ground, where the grass appeared trampled but gave no other clue. "We may already be too late," he said softly. "We'll have to come back here tomorrow morning and attempt to stop this madness once and for all." He guided her back the way they had come, patting her shoulder when she shivered in the peculiar chill.

"It's so cold," she complained. "It's not supposed to be cold on a tropical island."

"There may be another force behind that," Roarke mused quietly. "But if we succeed in defeating this insanity, that too will retreat from here." He shook his head when she peered up at him with questions in her eyes. "Don't probe too deeply, Leslie. Let's just go home for the night, so we can be fresh and rested for tomorrow."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § - March 19, 1983

They had just returned to the main house when the phone rang and Roarke answered it, while Leslie started upstairs. She paused, though, when he said in surprise, "Tattoo? Where are you?"

She watched and waited while he listened for a moment; then he sighed. "Very well, my friend, we will be there momentarily." He hung up and turned to Leslie. "We've been asked to come to Susan Henderson's bungalow."

"Well, here we go," muttered Leslie through a yawn. "You know what they want, right?"

Roarke chuckled. "Let's just go and see exactly how dire their straits are."

They parked the rover a few minutes later, and when Roarke killed the engine they heard a wavering voice carrying into the trees. Stepping from the car and starting up the walk to the bungalow door, they realized it was Henry, strumming a guitar and warbling some serenade, his voice sliding way off key at frequent intervals. Leslie gave Henry one sidelong look and then sidled along the walk, trying to pretend she was deaf; Roarke cast the man a dubious glance, nodded at him without getting a response, and let himself and Leslie into the bungalow, wincing hard.

Tattoo and Susan both sprang to their feet. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, thank heavens," Susan blurted. "There's been another accident."

Leslie had to stifle a snicker at her understatement, while Roarke commented with light sarcasm, "Oh, and here I thought that was Placido Domingo outside your door." He stepped down into the living room with Leslie behind him. "Uh, Tattoo, didn't you tell me you had a plan?"

"I did, boss," Tattoo said with a shrug. "Only thing is, it didn't work."

Leslie snorted outright. "Some plan," she scoffed, earning a dirty look from Tattoo.

The nature of the singing outside changed and they realized the serenade had just become a duet. "I guess Brian's putting in his two cents," commented Leslie.

"Great," muttered Tattoo.

"Well, for your information, I am not energizing Miss Henderson's ring," Roarke announced. "Not again. Even on Fantasy Island, certain rules must apply!" He slapped one hand with the other in time with his last four words, to lend them special emphasis.

"But boss," Tattoo protested, "rules are made to be broken!"

"Not this often," shot back Roarke, exasperated. Leslie grinned.

Tattoo hesitated, then turned to Susan and murmured, "Please, excuse me." Susan nodded and hurried up the two steps into the small raised dining-room area, then out to the little terrace in the back. "Boss, please, sit down," the Frenchman suggested, waiting till Roarke did so. Leslie stood nearby, settling her stance and folding her arms over her chest, very interested in finding out what Tattoo meant to do to talk Roarke around this time.

"Yes?" prompted Roarke suspiciously.

"Boss, I've got this great plan, and this time it's gonna work," Tattoo said firmly.

Roarke looked more exasperated than ever. "Tattoo, must I remind you that arranging a reception for Mr. Ransom—at the last moment—was no small task? These, uh, _plans_ of yours are proving to be quite taxing...to say nothing of expensive!"

"Well, this one is cheap. It's not gonna cost you anything." Tattoo hesitated a moment, then clarified, "Well, almost anything."

"I can't wait to hear this one," Leslie said with a grin.

"But you will," Roarke said with a quelling look, at which she merely shrugged. He paused to put a hand to his forehead, then went on, "What really concerns me, Tattoo, is that you have apparently not yet learned that second chances are very rare—and very valuable indeed! One must seize whatever opportunities life chooses to deal out, and act quickly and decisively. Don't you understand?"

Clearly nothing daunted, Tattoo replied, "Oh yes, boss, I learned that. Strike while the iron is hot. He who hesitates is lost." At this Roarke turned away, exasperated yet again, throwing Leslie a look that promised repercussions if she didn't stop smirking. Tattoo went on, "Opportunity knocks only once." He smiled broadly at Roarke and gave a nod.

"The squeaky wheel gets the grease," muttered Roarke, and Leslie giggled.

"Seize the day," she offered, unable to resist.

"Leslie, please," Roarke requested finally, at his wits' end, and she shrugged, meeting Tattoo's wide smirk with a grin of her own.

The Frenchman turned back to Roarke and begged hopefully, "Boss, please, give me another chance. Did I ever ask you for anything before?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Roarke informed him.

Tattoo thought about that for all of two seconds, then said brightly, "Well, I'm gonna ask you again!" Unable to stop herself, Leslie burst into laughter.

Roarke eyed her, then gave Tattoo a long look before apparently giving in. "Well, when you put it that way, how can I possibly refuse, Tattoo?" He arose and turned to where Susan was peeking into the room from the doorway to the terrace, while Leslie regained control over her amusement. "Uh, Miss Henderson, will you come here, please?" Susan hurried into the room, and Roarke thanked her, then turned to his assistant. "But this is the last time, Tattoo. If anything goes wrong this time, you and Miss Henderson will have to live with the consequences, do you understand? May I have your hand, please?...thank you." He addressed this last to Susan with no break whatsoever in his speech, and gathered Susan's hand with the ring between his, looking put out by now. Sensing he might be pushed too far at this point, Leslie carefully controlled her expression, although every time she replayed the conversation between Roarke and Tattoo, she wanted to laugh again. It seldom failed to amaze and amuse her to watch Tattoo getting around Roarke, who was more softhearted than he liked to let on.

Roarke shot Tattoo one final annoyed glance before performing the same ritual to recharge the ring; after a few seconds he peered under his hand, and they all saw the reflection of the ring's gleam beaming off the ceiling. Roarke nodded once, said to Susan, "There, you have another chance," and with that started for the door. "Come along, Leslie, it's late and you should get some sleep."

"Right," she agreed through a yawn.

At the steps Roarke paused, nearly causing Leslie to bump into him, and turned back to Susan. "And, uh...one more day to fulfill your fantasy," he told her, as if having just had the thought. "And now we leave you to your midnight serenade." So saying, he gave Leslie a prod in the shoulder, and she dutifully followed him out the door, past the two would-be gallants warbling enthusiastically at the moon, and to the rover.

"I think you were going to give Tattoo and Susan a second chance the entire time," she said. "Tattoo always manages to work his charm on you somehow."

Roarke gave her a look that made her draw back slightly. "If it weren't so late and you clearly so in need of sleep, Leslie Susan, I would wonder if you really heard what we just said back there. If you will kindly recall, this is a _third_ chance. As to Tattoo's alleged powers of persuasion, I would greatly prefer not to get into that. This subject is closed for tonight." Leslie shrugged acquiescence, her mind already turning to problem of Glen Hollow once more.

§ § § - March 20, 1983

Sunday morning was sunny and warm, and looked too beautiful to Leslie to hold any portents of evil. But she had learned in her four years on this island that anything could happen here, at any time, no matter the surroundings or even the apparent ambiance. She pictured the village square at Glen Hollow again, seeing the horse-and-buggies that were such a throwback to a long-lost age, and wondered why the entire population of Glen Hollow got all caught up in one family's travails. A curse, she mused. _So this supposed witch, Suzanna Martin, put a curse on Hallie Miller's family—the same way Tituba put a curse on my family. It's been passed down through the generations, just like the one in my family was. And just like me, she and Carl Peters need Mr. Roarke's help to break it!_ She shifted a little in her chair at the breakfast table, deciding after a few more minutes of thought that the entire village was involved probably because of the contagious nature of the plague that the curse was supposed to bring on.

"You're thinking hard about something," Tattoo remarked then, pulling her out of herself. "What's going on in your head?"

"I was just thinking about Glen Hollow," Leslie explained and told him and Roarke about the parallels she had drawn between this curse and the Hamilton curse, and her conclusions about why the entire village leaped into action over a curse involving only one family. "And maybe they're not as inconsiderate and uncaring about the rest of us islanders as we all thought," she concluded slowly, "because—well, like I said, the plague is contagious to the nth degree. Maybe they stay isolated to keep the plague outbreaks from spreading all over the island."

Roarke smiled at her, while Tattoo took on a thoughtful look. "Well reasoned out, Leslie," he said. "But here's the twist: there may not, in fact, be an actual plague." She gave him such a confused look that he reminded her, "You'll recall that we've had some fantasies in which the participants believed fully and wholeheartedly in some sort of curse, or jinx, or some such thing. Sometimes they believe in it to such a degree that actual physical symptoms begin to manifest. This may well be the case with this curse. Plague is known to break out abruptly, yes; a victim who was perfectly well at breakfast might be seriously ill by lunchtime and perhaps dead by supper. However, these plague symptoms, as I have seen on at least one other occasion, appear instantaneously, within a matter of a few seconds. There is something odd about this particular version of the plague, and it's entirely possible that there is subterfuge taking place. We'll know later on when it's time to bring Mr. Peters' fantasy to its end."

It stayed on Leslie's mind off and on throughout the day while Tattoo went off just past lunch to check on Susan Henderson, and Leslie sorted out the latest batch of mail. But around mid-afternoon, both she and Roarke were distracted, and in Leslie's case quite surprised, when Tattoo came in with Susan Henderson at his side. She seemed troubled; when she and Tattoo stopped in front of the desk, Roarke had to ask her what was wrong.

Susan flicked a glance at Tattoo, who made an urgent gesture at her, and finally she sighed and turned to Roarke. "I...I think I should...well, I want to reverse what I did to poor Carter. I want all this to end and everything to go back the way it was."

Roarke eyed her and summarized a bit darkly, "You want to call off your fantasy."

"What I did could ruin Carter's career," Susan said with a sad nod. "I care for him too much to let that happen."

"What you did?" Leslie repeated blankly. "Did you do something?"

"I made him fall in love with me, with this ring," Susan said, displaying it at her and making Leslie smile with the realization that at least she had managed to make her third chance succeed. But her smile faded as Susan went on, "I met his, um, old girlfriend, Gloria, at his bungalow. She said because I was all he could think about, he couldn't concentrate on his music or anything else, and he'd be a has-been in no time. And it's all because of me." She turned to Roarke. "Besides, I'm coming to realize that, if I'm going to be loved, it should be for what I am, not because of some trick."

Roarke regarded her for a moment without smiling, then warned, "If I do this, you know there can be no turning back."

Susan removed the ring and looked up at Roarke solemnly, murmuring, "I know." She turned to Tattoo and murmured, "I'm sorry, Tattoo. It was so sweet of you to try." Tattoo looked a little regretful, but accepting of Susan's decision; Leslie caught his eye and smiled at him. Susan added after a moment, "But I guess I'm not meant to have any grand romance." She reached across the desk with the ring in her outstretched hand.

Roarke arose and accepted it. "Very well, Miss Henderson; as of now, none of the men affected by this ring is in love with you any longer...including Carter Ransom."

Susan's face began to crumple at this grave-toned coda, and she turned and ran out of the house before she could burst into tears in front of them. Tattoo and Leslie exchanged sympathetic glances; Roarke simply gazed after her, his face concerned, his fingers absently worrying the ring.

"Is she going to be okay?" Leslie wanted to know.

Tattoo shrugged. "I don't know. I hope so. I'll check on her later, but I think I'll give her a little time alone first. She was in love with Carter Ransom for a long time, and this hits her hard."

Roarke had been watching him as he spoke, and now he smiled and nodded. "Quite so, my friend, quite so. You've done all you could do for her, and now she just needs a friend. But, as you said, give her a little time to regain her composure." He let a beat or two elapse, then put down the ring, brought out his gold pocket watch and checked the time. "Just for now, though, if you'd do me a favor and double-check the menus at the hotel, the pond restaurant and the lounge, I'd appreciate it. After that you can take a turn through the casino and be certain things are running smoothly; stay there for an hour or two, if you would, please."

"Will do, boss," Tattoo agreed, and left the house in silence. Roarke and Leslie could almost see the troubled aura around him, but they let him go without speaking.

Roarke sat down again and turned the ring over and over in his hand for a bit. "Perhaps I'd better put this away before it slips my mind," he mused. "Leslie, I think the ring box is still on the table where we sat yesterday morning."

Leslie nodded, rising and going out to the terrace behind him. He was right; the crystal ring box had been pushed up against a clear box-shaped container of flowers in the center of the table. She grabbed it and brought it back inside, handing it to him. "Where'd that ring come from anyway? I mean, did it used to belong to some famous historical figure, like..." She thought for a moment. "Like maybe Helen of Troy, or Lady Godiva, or someone?"

Roarke grinned. "No, actually, this is just an ordinary ring," he said. "In fact, unless I miss my guess, it was left here by accident, some twenty years ago or thereabouts, by a guest. Tattoo did some detective work and figured out who its owner had been; but when we attempted to contact her, she never responded. We held it for a year, but it was never claimed, so I added it to my stock of props and costumes." He met Leslie's gaze, his own glowing with gentle amusement. "Remember, my dear Leslie, it's not the prop so much as it is the power."

"That may be," countered Leslie with a grin, "but you've had enough impressive props that I figured you just never know." They both laughed, and he shut the ring away in a drawer while she sat down and gathered up the mail again.

The afternoon wore on till it was approaching five and they were heading out for a light supper, and Leslie realized she was anxious enough to dull her appetite. "What about Mr. Peters?" she persisted. "When do we go over there and get him out of that fantasy?"

Roarke consulted his watch again, then studied the sky. "We'll leave for Glen Hollow immediately after the meal," he promised her. "The crucial moment is sundown, and that will occur within an hour. You don't have to eat much, but do make sure you have something."

Obediently Leslie ate a lobster-salad sandwich and a peach, but then she stood up before Roarke had quite finished. "The sun's awfully low," she hinted, studying the long shadows in the lane and across from the house that nearly obliterated the sunny patches where light still filtered between leaves and tree trunks.

Roarke said nothing, only ate another bite or two, then arose and carefully wiped his hands on a napkin. "Very well, Miss Anxious," he teased with a quick smile. "Perhaps you'd like to drive."

She did so, covering the distance at a higher speed than she suspected Roarke would have employed had he been the one at the wheel. They were still a short distance out from Glen Hollow when they heard sirens in the distance, coming nearer; Leslie shot a glance into the rearview mirror, but there was nothing behind them. She rounded a curve that put them on a straightaway from which they could see into Glen Hollow's central square, and she and Roarke both saw a police car sail into the village and skid to a halt beside the little green. As she drew nearer, they could see a crowd filling the green; a figure leaped from the squad car and stalked into the green. Leslie hit the gas and entered the square herself just in time to see a man dressed in camouflage fatigues raise a crossbow, preparing to shoot at the two figures huddled in front of the stone obelisk.

"Stop now," Roarke said sharply, and she slammed on the brakes; he jumped out just before the car came to a halt and shouted, "Mr. Mayor!"

Swiftly Leslie parked the car, pocketed the keys and scrambled out, running to catch up with Roarke; it took some doing, for his strides were long and purposeful. The crowd standing near the gazebo, on the south side of the green near whose corner Leslie had parked beside an empty buggy with a horse still hitched to it, turned to see who owned the voice, all exclaiming and mumbling as they watched him cross the green. Leslie kept her gaze on Carl Peters and Hallie Miller as Roarke made his way toward them and she stuck close behind him.

Roarke indicated the young couple. "They are both willing to die," he said, pausing beside a somewhat gaunt white-haired man wearing a dated suit and a khaki-colored hat with a black band. "The strength of their love, their willingness to sacrifice everything for each other—surely such a demonstration of good deems any further evil unnecessary."

"We can't take the chance," declared the man with the crossbow, raising the weapon. "I say they both die."

"No!" snapped the mayor, but Leslie could see already that it was too late; the man thumbed down a lever and fired. She gasped.

At that point time seemed almost to slow down, as though every movement were being executed in a giant pool. Before anyone could object, or Leslie say another word, the flying arrow took on a fiery greenish sheen, the color of a firefly's flash, and seemed almost to float in a leisurely manner toward Carl Peters and Hallie Miller. Roarke actually watched it go by, a slight smile on his face.

Then the arrow lost its glow and became what Leslie could only describe as a specter of itself; it shifted into a transparent white line in the air just as it passed through Carl Peters, before slamming into the obelisk below a square plaque mounted on its south side, and bursting into flames. Everyone stared in shock; people murmured, but it was obvious most of them were too stunned to react much for the moment. Carl and Hallie looked at each other, and Carl rubbed his stomach where the arrow had—or hadn't, perhaps—passed through him.

Only Roarke looked calm; he winked discreetly at Leslie, then turned his attention to the obelisk with the arrow jutting out of it. She trained her own gaze on it in time to see the flames vanish as though they'd never been, and water began to gush out of the hole the arrow had punched into the obelisk. A new murmur of shock arose from the watching crowd, and Carl and Hallie stepped back out of the gusher's path.

Roarke slipped past them, removing a handkerchief from one pocket as he did so, and Leslie heard Hallie ask low, "Who's that man?"

"Only God knows," responded Carl, and Leslie shook her head to herself, trying to hide a smile. _Not so,_ she thought whimsically. _Mr. Roarke knows too, after all!_

Roarke wet the handkerchief in the stream of water flowing from the obelisk, then squeezed out the excess before strolling toward the crowd, nodding slightly at Carl and Hallie along the way. He paused in front of a girl a little younger than Leslie, with longish auburn hair, whose face was covered in huge reddish-purple plague lesions. Leslie realized this was probably Hallie's little sister Jamie, whom Roarke had told her about the previous night, and watched, wondering what Roarke was up to, just as much as everyone else undoubtedly was.

Roarke unfurled the wet hanky, raised it with slow, deliberate motions, and gently wiped Jamie's face with it, hiding it completely from view for a few seconds. When he lowered the cloth, Jamie's face was clear, as if she had never been sick at all. Gasps and cries went up at sight of her; even Leslie found herself shaking her head with astonishment.

The mayor and a woman standing beside him, probably his wife as Leslie surmised, looked at each other with wondering delight. A stocky man in police uniform, whose face bore the same lesions that Jamie had had, got up from the gazebo steps where he had been sitting and approached Roarke, who gladly administered the same treatment to him. But Leslie's eyes were on Carl and Hallie, who turned to each other and kissed, oblivious to everyone around them. Roarke glanced at them and smiled, winked again at a grinning Leslie, and nodded to young Jamie, stroking the girl's hair once or twice before stepping away.

The mayor, with his wife by the hand, approached Roarke with a querulous mien about him. "So...uh...does this mean the curse is broken?"

Roarke nodded. "Once and for all. You need never suffer from it again."

"So then...maybe we can leave this place after all," spoke up another voice, and Roarke and Leslie both turned to see a handsome young dark-haired man sidling uncertainly toward them from the north side of the green where he must have been standing all this time, witnessing the whole scene. "I always knew we don't have much future here. The older folks are too entrenched, but us young people...well, we want to see the world and be a part of it. We could never do that, being so isolated here because of that stupid curse and that plague. Now we're free to go, aren't we?"

Roarke regarded him with interest, smiled a little and concurred, "If that is your wish, Mr. Miller, then by all means, you certainly are." He turned toward the crowd in general and added, "In fact, perhaps that's the wisest thing you can do. For far too many years, for centuries, you and your ancestors have sequestered yourselves here, believing that the curse and the plague it brought meant that you could never dare venture beyond even this village. Perhaps it's time you all slipped the boundaries...gave yourselves a chance to experience all the many things the world has to offer." He eyed the mayor and smiled again. "All of you, yes, from eldest to youngest."

The mayor shrugged thoughtfully, knocking his hat aside enough to self-consciously scratch above his ear. "Well now, Mr. Roarke, I gotta admit, I've been thinking about it myself for some time, ever since my younger brother up and ran off ten years or so ago. He resettled in New England, where our ancestors originally came here from. Says it's real nice there, and even old Salem isn't the same place it was when our forebears left." He looked up, tapping his hat back into place. "Maybe it's time we joined him, my wife and I, and our Jamie."

The younger people seemed enthusiastic about the idea, and while some of their elders seemed dubious, the overall mood appeared to Leslie to be that of hope and excitement for the future. She tossed a glance back at Carl and Hallie, still locked in their embrace, and paused beside her guardian. "You know...your brother might be right," she offered a little shyly to the mayor. "I'm from Connecticut myself. There's a lot of preserved history all over New England, so, well...maybe if you decide to go back, you won't find it really all that different from this place."

"Huh," said the young man, and she turned to see him studying her, which made her face heat with a blush. He grinned at her and stuck out a hand. "I'm Ethan Miller—Hallie's brother. You're from Connecticut?"

She nodded and shook hands. "Leslie Hamilton—Mr. Roarke's ward," she said. "I live here now, but yeah, I was born in Connecticut." She released Ethan's hand and swept an assessing glance around the village. "This place does sort of resemble towns I remember seeing when I was little, but I bet everybody here would love to see the real thing."

"You don't have to sell me," Ethan chuckled. "I'm looking forward to packing my bags and heading out, the second I get my money out of the bank. What do you think my chances are of getting into Yale, huh?" Leslie laughed, along with several others, including Roarke; and guardian and ward shared a significant look, both certain that before too long, Glen Hollow's population would experience a major downturn.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § - March 20, 1983

Back at the main house, they found Tattoo on the terrace, sitting at the table where Roarke had first given Susan Henderson the enchanted ring, drumming his stubby fingers on the tabletop and scowling at nothing. "Why the long face, my friend?" Roarke inquired.

Tattoo's head came up and the scowl disappeared into a startled double-take; then he relaxed and executed a morose shrug. "Aw, well, just thinking, boss. Just wishing things could've turned out better for Susan." He let out a deep sigh. "Another botched-up plan, huh, boss?"

"Well, that all depends," Roarke observed, coming out onto the patio with Leslie and both of them taking seats at the table. "I thought you would return here after you had completed your duties, but you didn't even join us for supper. Where were you?"

"I couldn't take it anymore," Tattoo admitted, peering at him with an abashed look. "I just...I didn't think it was right, doing what we did to Carter Ransom. Well, me doing what I did..."

"Susan went along with it, you know," Leslie pointed out.

"I know that, but it was my idea to try to help her out. Anyway, it was bothering me all day, so I, uh...I went over to Mr. Ransom's bungalow and told him what we did." He nodded when Leslie and Roarke both reacted, looking at each other in pure surprise. "I wanted it off my chest. My conscience was yelling at me all afternoon, and it was the only way I could shut it up."

Roarke quirked a bemused half-smile while Leslie laughed. "Well," she said, "even if that's the reason you did it, you still did the right thing, if you ask me. How'd Mr. Ransom take it?"

Now it was Tattoo who wore the bemused look. "He was okay with it. That's what really gets me! He listened to everything I had to say, and then he looked past me for a while, like he was thinking about it, and then he nodded and said he figured it must be some kind of thing like that, because he knew he was feeling weird but he didn't know why. And when it went away all of a sudden, he said, he knew it had to be a fantasy." He slanted a crooked grin at Roarke. "I think we have a reputation, boss."

On Roarke's smile, Leslie snorted and grumbled, "Not as far as that Gloria woman was concerned. I met up with her when you sent me to the post office around four, Mr. Roarke, and she was just insufferable. She called this place 'a dreary little island' and said she'd never been anywhere more boring, and all she could talk about was New York City. She said everything around here was so backward and sleepy, and she talked about what she called 'outdated elegance' and said she preferred all the modern excitement in old En-Wye-Cee. And then when she said she couldn't wait to pack her bags and get out of here, I couldn't stand it." She cleared her throat, aware of both men's intrigued gazes on her. "I'd been quiet the whole time, but she kept putting Fantasy Island down, and putting it down, and putting it down, with all her stupid criticisms. So when she said three times in five minutes that she was dying to get out, that was too much for me. I asked her, 'Then what're you hanging out in the post office for? Are you gonna try to mail yourself back to New York?' "

Tattoo burst out laughing; Roarke eyed Leslie for about five more seconds before succumbing to his own amusement, chuckling heartily. Leslie let her sheepish grin have its way, and Tattoo leaned over the table. "So what'd Gloria say after that?"

"Nothing," Leslie said, still grinning. "I walked out after that, and I didn't hear a sound out of her. I have no problem admitting that it felt really good to shut her big mouth."

Laughing now, Roarke shook his head. "You did seem a little self-satisfied when you came back from the post office," he remarked. "Now I see why." He turned to Tattoo. "Perhaps, my friend, you'd like to bid your farewells to Miss Henderson, then? I understand she intends to catch the last charter out this evening, a little ahead of schedule."

Tattoo looked startled. "She does? Well, I guess we better hurry up then."

They took a stroll down one of the paths that took them toward the bungalows, but when they got to the small lane where the cottages were located, they noticed Susan already heading down the lane carrying a suitcase and dressed in a smart, elegant pastel-pink skirt suit with a white blouse. Before Tattoo could hail her, they all heard strains of classical piano music emanating from the nearest bungalow, the one with the sign out front that proclaimed it to be the Lilac Bungalow, and paused to listen. Susan did too, lifting her head and beginning to smile with wonder at the sound.

They watched her drift toward the bungalow as if magnetically attracted, and hid themselves among the nearby foliage to see what transpired, mostly at Tattoo's hopeful plea. "If she decides to see Mr. Ransom," he explained, "I want to be sure he isn't mad at her."

Roarke smiled at that. "Very well, then, but make sure we aren't visible to them."

They watched Susan wander to the tiny corner terrace and pause near a four-tier planter shelf, head cocked as she listened to the fluid piano notes pouring through the sliding glass door. After about a minute or so, the piece came to a quiet, understated end, and Susan seemed to relax, complimenting the unseen pianist on the piece.

He emerged after another moment and they had a conversation too low to hear; at one point Susan tried to turn away as if to leave, but Ransom stopped her. They spoke a little longer before he tipped forward and placed a soft kiss on each of Susan's cheeks. She looked radiant, and he was smiling broadly.

"Well, Tattoo, it appears your plan worked after all," Roarke remarked, sounding impressed. Tattoo stared up at him, then smiled proudly, his gaze going back to Carter Ransom and Susan Henderson, who were now talking quietly.

Then Roarke commented to Tattoo, "You know, this is the second time Miss Henderson has saved your life." His dark eyes twinkled, belying his stern expression.

Leslie snickered, almost loudly enough to be heard by the couple at the bungalow; Tattoo shot Roarke a startled glance, then laughed softly, and Roarke chuckled with them before beckoning them away toward the path that would take them back home.

§ § § - March 21, 1983

Carl Peters stepped out of the rover with Hallie Miller, and beamed at his hosts. "Mr. Roarke, Tattoo, Leslie...it's great to be alive and together."

"I bet it is," Leslie remarked, and Carl laughed, nodding.

"I still can't believe this has all happened," said Hallie. "It's been a miracle."

Roarke smiled at her. "Yes, Miss Miller, a miracle of love. You see, the strength of your love for each other, and the dual sacrifice you were willing to make, broke the power of the spell forever."

Carl and Hallie both seemed to have been rendered speechless by the very idea; at least, all Carl could do was thank Roarke again and shake hands. Hallie hesitated a moment, then looked at Leslie. "I don't know what you said to my brother, but Ethan's been talking about nothing but moving to Connecticut and enrolling in Yale University. And now my parents are thinking maybe they'll sell their house here and move there with him, and take Jamie of course, and make a new life there." She shook her head in bemusement. "They must've started something. A lot of people in Glen Hollow are talking about leaving, and I think they're serious." She laughed a little. "At least we'll have family and friends not far away, if everyone really does decide to leave."

Leslie shrugged self-consciously and managed a shy smile. "Maybe it wasn't really me," she suggested. "I mean...Ethan said he'd been thinking about it long before this. So maybe you and Mr. Peters were the real catalyst, and maybe I just kind of...well, handed out a little advice."

Carl and Hallie both grinned at her, shook her hand, bid them all farewell and headed for the plane. Tattoo eyed Leslie and snorted good-naturedly, "Brat. You were hoping all the time that you'd get Hallie's brother to move to your home state, weren't you?"

Leslie cast him a superior look, then stuck out her tongue at him, and all three of them laughed before returning Carl's and Hallie's final goodbye wave. The drone of another approaching rover caught their attention and they all turned to watch Carter Ransom and Susan Henderson step out of the car to pause in front of their hosts.

To Leslie's surprise, Tattoo produced from his jacket pocket the very ring that Susan had been using that weekend. "I thought you might want a souvenir of your visit here," he said, holding it up.

Susan giggled airily. "Oh, Tattoo, thank you, but no," she said. "It took me long enough, but I finally realized there are no shortcuts, no magical solutions, when it comes to love. You have to work at a relationship just like anything else." She stepped forward to hug Tattoo and give him a peck on the cheek. "Goodbye, _mon ami."_

Tattoo beamed. "Not goodbye, but _au revoir_ , huh?" They both grinned broadly and Susan nodded; they all traded farewells, and off went the second couple toward the plane.

They were still returning their guests' last waves of goodbye when Tattoo peered speculatively at the ring, then began to scan around them as though looking for something. Leslie instantly got an idea of what he meant to do and rolled her eyes ostentatiously while Roarke watched his assistant with a perplexed, and perhaps faintly suspicious, look on his face. A native girl appeared around one of the bushes behind them, and Tattoo scuttled off the raised platform where he had been standing and waylaid her, touching her hand with the ring. Leslie and even Roarke watched with great surprise when the ring seemed to work; for just a moment the girl's entire form glowed head to toe before she knelt down and began planting kisses all over Tattoo's face.

Leslie's hand shot to her mouth with disbelief; Roarke aimed a disapproving look at Tattoo, who merely smirked and waggled the ring at them. "Boss, I'll see you later," he bubbled happily. "Bye!" He turned, with the girl by the hand, only to bump smack into a blond young man in a lei and one of the garments the male natives wore here that Leslie thought of as a skirted loincloth. There was no question in Roarke's or Leslie's minds but that the man in question was the native girl's boyfriend. Hands on hips, he stared down at Tattoo with a mildly threatening look on his face.

Tattoo sputtered and stepped back a pace or two; the girl looked at the man with some consternation before the fellow reached out with both arms as if to encircle Tattoo's head and squeeze the life out of him. Tattoo didn't even have to duck; he simply dodged aside and around the guy, then sped off on foot down the lane, squawking, with the girl behind him and the young man in hot pursuit. Roarke and Leslie took one look at each other and both burst out laughing, unable to control themselves as Tattoo led a merry chase all over the clearing.

§ § § - April 6, 2012

The kids were squalling with laughter; Roald and Christian, both laughing themselves, shook their heads almost in unison. "I always meant to ask you," Leslie said to her father, "how did that ring end up working? I thought you were supposed to charge the thing before anybody could use it, and here Tattoo had it in hand and you never touched it—and boom, just like that, it actually worked on that girl."

Roarke's smile was a little crooked. "I recall asking Tattoo that myself later...after I stopped laughing." Which in turn touched off some more laughter among the group. After a moment he went on, "The best explanation I was able to come up with, when he of course claimed not to know, is that I charged the ring so many times that weekend that it apparently retained a residual charge, of which Tattoo took advantage."

"And Tattoo was never one to pass up an opportunity," Leslie remarked, grinning. "I still wonder what he'd have done if Susan Henderson had actually decided to take the ring."

"Panicked, I would expect," Roarke said dryly. "There is not a doubt in my mind." He settled back and waited for the amusement to die back, winking at the triplets.

"Aren't there some other places on this island that have been standing abandoned for quite some time?" Christian inquired after a lull. "I ask only because Grady brought it up the other evening when he and I were on the phone. He had been going through some files at the island's hall of records, and came across several places that seem to have been centers of activity at one time, but no longer. He said something about wondering whether Leslie had given any thought to putting them back to use."

"There aren't that many," Leslie said, frowning as she tried to think. "I mean, some places that seem abandoned really aren't. A lot of those mansions in the Enclave are still used for fantasies, especially after Delphine took over the fantasy-granting aspect of the business and Rogan moved on to supplying plants for the occasional potion. Glen Hollow's coming back to life with the immigrants from clans moving in—and I kind of have a feeling they'll want to rename the place at some point in the future anyway." She pondered some more. "The orphanage was purchased by some gazillionaire way back when, if I remember right. And that castle where Cornelius Kelly and Alphonse hid out that weekend they kidnapped Tattoo...I think it belonged to some relative of Alphonse's. He died in the 90s sometime, I think, and by then nobody knew where Alphonse was anymore."

"A castle? Seriously?" broke in Roald. "Is it habitable?"

"Yeah, a live-in staff keeps it up," said Leslie. "From what I remember, their pay comes from the estate of Alphonse's relative who owned the place. Every now and then it gets used in a fantasy, usually somebody wanting to be a royal for a weekend. So that isn't abandoned either." She shrugged. "How many places like that did Grady find, anyway?"

"Not so many," said Christian. "At first glance it seemed like quite a few, but when he investigated each one, it turned out there were really only three or four. One of them was evidently the chateau that used to stand on the land Grady and Maureen live on now. And I believe he found that there was another castle that had been used once in a truly odd fantasy involving that mad Hungarian countess, Elizabeth Bathorý."

Leslie made a face. "Well, so many people went to so much trouble to build that thing, there was no sense in having it just for one fantasy and then knocking it down. We still use it for royal fantasies." She shrugged at Roald's look askance. "Well, hey, we can't keep using the same castle for every royal fantasy. Gotta have some variety."

They laughed, and Christian shook his head. "I'm just thankful that very few, if any, of them insist on holding huge royal balls at which our attendance is all but mandatory. Anyhow, back to the subject here. Glen Hollow, of course, was an entity unto itself; but there was one other structure that Grady couldn't find any usage or ownership records for, after about 1980. He said the last time it had been used was for a fantasy late in 1979, and before that it had apparently been a boarding school for girls." He focused on Leslie. "He mentioned that the record states the school was closed permanently very shortly after you first came here to live."

"Oh, yeah, that," Leslie mused and smiled a little, shifting her gaze to Roarke. "Well, that's a lead-in if I ever heard one. Do you remember that, Father?"

"As if you needed to ask," Roarke teased. "You were still as green as could be, but by then you'd made it more than clear that you wanted to come with Tattoo and me to the plane dock every weekend. So that was your third Saturday doing so, and I had begun to wonder if you ever meant to comment on anything while we were greeting our guests..."

§ § § - March 3, 1979

Leslie had been on the island exactly a month, and for a while now Roarke had been wondering if she ever meant to come out of her shell. She seemed to have settled in well enough, but he knew she was still working through some issues. But she had shown such overt interest in his livelihood that he considered it a good sign of things to come.

So he was in a very good mood when he and Leslie stepped out onto the porch and paused at the top of the steps; as usual he checked the weather and then his watch, while Leslie turned at sight of Tattoo striding along the veranda crossing the front of the house, having just come down from the bell tower. There was a pink carnation in his lapel, and he wore a broad smile.

"Good morning, Tattoo!" Roarke greeted him.

"Good morning, boss," the Frenchman responded and stuck out a hand. "Shake."

Roarke did so—only to stiffen for a moment, almost as if he'd been electrocuted, while an odd buzzing sound filled the air. Leslie hopped back a step or two as Roarke pulled his hand from Tattoo's, his smile decidedly strained now.

Tattoo cackled cheerfully. "Pretty funny, huh?" he prodded, raising his right palm to show off a trick buzzer.

Roarke humored him and nodded, his good mood restored somewhat when he heard Leslie mutter, "Pretty _old,_ actually." He agreed with her, but before he could say anything, Tattoo spoke up again.

"Boss," he said, "you wouldn't believe it. This flower...it squirts!" He pointed at the bloom in his lapel. "Look." As Roarke and Leslie watched, he thumbed some hidden trigger behind the blossom, and a stream of water spouted out, bathing a parrot on a nearby perch and eliciting an annoyed squawk from the bird. Tattoo laughed delightedly again.

Roarke, trying with only partial success to bolster his eroding patience, inquired, "May I ask what has set you off on this path of hilarity?" Leslie peered sidewise at him and half-smiled; he had learned that it was her usual reaction to irony from him—the irony Tattoo usually missed.

"Well, boss, I found out that the girls...well, they love a man with a sense of humor."

"Oh, I see...changing your image again," Roarke observed.

"Right. I want to be the king of laughter on Fantasy Island," Tattoo explained.

Leslie began to snicker soundlessly to herself while Roarke played along. "Oh," he breathed, then turned and started down the steps. "Lucky us."

Tattoo stared after him in disbelief; Leslie's snickers instantly bloomed into chortles. "Hey," Tattoo protested, glaring at her.

Roarke paused, with the intention of asking them if they intended to accompany him to the plane dock; but before he could speak, Leslie said to Tattoo, "Just in case you were wondering, you already _are_ the king of laughter around here." Tattoo's outrage grew to almost caricaturish proportions, and he reached for the flower on his lapel. Catching the movement, Leslie dodged him by leaping all three of the porch steps in one jump and running for the car. Tattoo followed at last, glowering, and Roarke allowed himself to chuckle a few times as they all got into the waiting rover.

At the plane dock, they watched a somewhat clumsy-looking fellow clamber out of the seaplane's hatch lugging some books under one arm and, in the other hand, a green box on one side of which was a contraption that looked like a satellite dish. "Boss, I bet I know who that man is," Tattoo exclaimed excitedly.

"Really?" prompted Roarke, when the Frenchman failed to elaborate. Leslie tipped her head at him, expecting him to claim the guy was famous for some arcane pursuit.

But Tattoo said with an anticipatory smirk, "He's coming to put up a new antenna so I can watch 'The Gong Show'."

"Cute, Your Majesty," said Leslie unexpectedly from Roarke's other side.

He spared her a surprised glance at her newfound loquacity before informing Tattoo, "Fortunately, you are wrong." Tattoo's smile collapsed. "The gentleman happens to be Mr. Elliott Fielding, and the sophisticated electronic equipment he's carrying has been engineered to detect the presence of ghosts."

"Ghosts?" echoed Tattoo, looking abruptly nervous and edging almost behind Roarke while Leslie watched him incredulously. The Frenchman peered up at them and muttered, "I hope he didn't bring any ghosts with him."

"There's no such thing," grumbled Leslie.

Roarke chuckled at her and assured Tattoo, "No, my friend; in fact, he's hoping we can provide them." He noticed Leslie's skeptical look. "You see, Mr. Fielding is a librarian who has spent years learning everything there is to know about the spirit world..." These last words came out in a teasingly spooky tone that made Leslie roll her eyes tolerantly. "...and he's even written a book on ghost-breaking. But no publisher would touch it because of his lack of practical experience." In the middle of his final sentence, as Fielding was stepping into the clearing from the landing ramp, one of the native girls, balancing a tray of drinks, tapped Fielding on the shoulder, audibly startling the guy into dropping his books. He set down the satellite-dish contraption before it fell too, gathered the books together, and sheepishly accepted a glass.

"Huh," contributed Leslie. "Now I see why."

Tattoo nodded concurrence. "I think he should stay away from ghosts. He's such a chicken, he's a turkey!"

Roarke chuckled at their reactions and observed, "Yes, our guest has never had the confidence to put his book to use. Nevertheless, his fantasy is to meet and exorcise a real ghost, to prove his book is worth publishing."

"Boss, can you really do that? Provide him with a ghost?" asked Tattoo doubtfully.

Leslie snorted. "I'd like to see that!"

"Would you?" Roarke inquired with a small, teasing smile. "Well, then, I'll keep that in mind." With a lingering glance at her suspicious expression, he turned then to the next guest, just emerging from the charter—a slender, wary-looking woman with a good deal of gray in her blonde hair. "Ms. Carol Gates," Roarke introduced her, "who owns and runs a bar and grill in Phoenix, Arizona. Her fantasy is to wish her two children a happy birthday."

"What's the big deal about that?" demanded Tattoo.

Leslie peered at Roarke. "My question is, what's the catch? There has to be one."

"So there is," Roarke said, nodding. "It's exactly this: thirty years ago tomorrow, Ms. Gates, who was then seventeen and unmarried, had twins, a boy and a girl, and she gave them up for adoption. She has neither seen nor heard from them since; and now, on the eve of their thirtieth birthday, she would like to get to know them, and at long last, wish them happy birthday."

"Her children, boss...were you really able to find them?" Tattoo wanted to know.

Roarke took on a gently exasperated look. "Of course I did, Tattoo. The question is whether, after so long, they'll be ready to find their mother." He left them on that note while his drink arrived and he toasted his guests, in the greeting Leslie had already come to know as well as she knew her own name. Both Elliott Fielding and Carol Gates looked hopeful, and Leslie found herself thinking she'd like to keep close tabs on both fantasies, if her guardian saw fit to allow it.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § - March 3, 1979

Somewhat more than an hour later, they were climbing a hilly, winding driveway to a large old house with an unusual design that intrigued Leslie: the place had at least three stories, and she suspected it must also boast an attic and a cellar; and there were quite a few round features on the building. It boasted a couple of turrets, one large sturdy one at its right and a much narrower one on the left corner, and many of the windows were rounded to some extent. A second-floor enclosed balcony even sported a rounded opening overlooking the sprawling front lawn. A veranda ran across the front of the house, and there was a widow's walk at the very top.

They pulled to a stop just past the house and got out; Leslie was still taking in the turrets, the many gables, and the lawn, studded with palms and a number of small gardens. Behind the house rose craggy peaks that spoke to the volcanic origins of Fantasy Island.

"Ah, lovely, isn't it, Mr. Fielding?" Roarke remarked, clearly taking great pleasure in the attractive house and surroundings. Leslie turned around to see that Fielding had come around the front of the car and was standing beside Roarke, peering at the house. "Who would believe that a monster once stalked these peaceful grounds, turning the night into a time of terror and death?"

Fielding stared at Roarke; Tattoo's face took on an alarmed scowl. Leslie leaned against the car and folded her arms over her chest, still skeptical.

"Really?" Fielding ventured, nearly twisting his head off his neck scanning around him.

"Yes, a most frightening creature," said Roarke. Fielding focused on him, and Leslie made a scoffing noise, which seemed to amuse Roarke, who smiled and added, "Or so the legend goes." He chuckled. "Tattoo will unload your equipment while I show you around. Leslie, perhaps you'd give Tattoo a hand."

But before she could say anything, Tattoo protested, "Boss, I think we should stay with you and Mr. Fielding. It could be very dangerous for you to be alone."

"Well, of course, if you are frightened to stay behind..." Roarke began.

Leslie smirked when Tattoo, naturally, denied it. "Me? Uh, no, boss, I'm not...matter of fact, I don't really even need Leslie's help." He didn't sound very convincing, though, and Leslie was sure she could see a trace of amusement in Roarke's dark eyes.

"Good," Roarke said approvingly. "If you are sure you can handle it alone...?" At Tattoo's nod, he lowered his head with acquiescence and gestured toward the house. "This way, Mr. Fielding. Leslie, come along if you intend to do so."

She trailed the two men across the lawn, glancing back once at Tattoo, who squinted nervously in the bright spring sun as if on the lookout for any specters. She shook her head a little and turned her attention to the house, studying its many details, wondering what it must look like inside.

Ahead of her, Fielding half jogged to catch up with Roarke and grab his arm. "Uh...you said something about a monster being here...?" he began in a quavery tone.

Roarke stopped and regarded him with interest. "Yes, yes. You see, a hundred years ago, this lovely mansion was the home of a demented murderer, known only as the Gentleman Strangler." For the first time, this gave Leslie pause, and she stopped short to gape at her guardian. Fielding gave a nervous nod or two and shifted his gaze back to the house.

"Most of his victims were beautiful young women," Roarke went on, at which Leslie found herself thinking, _oh, of_ _course_ _they were._ "A day or two before the actual killing, he would leave his calling card—a single blood-red rose." At this Fielding looked away, his expression suggesting he was well on the way to full-on panic, and Roarke murmured a sympathetic "yes", watching him. "I hope your abilities are equal to the task, Mr. Fielding, because innocent lives may be at stake. You see, the Strangler's mansion is now a school for girls."

As if his words had summoned them, a gaggle of about a dozen girls, all dressed in white-trimmed red polo shirts, white shorts, red knee socks, and sneakers, abruptly poured out of the front door, all squalling excitedly, and scampered across the veranda to the steps that led off the corner of the house in front of the larger of the two turrets. Tattoo had just gained the top step with Fielding's equipment in hand, and stumbled back, losing his balance and nearly dropping the boxes and cases he was carrying. Only the retaining wall near the steps kept him from toppling back down to the driveway. Oblivious, the girls trotted down the steps and into the yard, all of them greeting Roarke. Leslie watched them, feeling shy and out of place; they were all at least a couple of years older than she was, and it occurred to her to wonder if her guardian had possibly considered enrolling her in this school when she had first arrived a month before.

"Hello, girls," Roarke replied with a smile, as the young students paused beside him, most of them peering curiously at Leslie.

"Ladies..." broke in a new voice, and her attention shifted to a pretty, dark-haired woman in red pants and a white shirt who had to raise her voice to get them to quiet down. "Ladies, please, control yourselves!"

Roarke chuckled. "Miss Camberly, may I introduce Mr. Elliott Fielding, and my new ward, Leslie Hamilton. Miss Edna Camberly, owner and headmistress of the Camberly School for Girls."

"Hi, Leslie," Edna Camberly said, and Leslie smiled back and murmured a greeting. A few of the girls giggled behind their hands, and she wished she could figure out how to control her own blushing. She could feel her face getting hot and knew it wasn't from the sun.

"How do you do?" Fielding put in then, looking impressed by Miss Camberly.

She focused on him and remarked, "Mr. Roarke told me all about you, but he didn't say you were so young!" Roarke and Leslie exchanged a surprised look. Miss Camberly's students let out a low chorus of _ohhhs_ and giggles, and the headmistress floundered on, "Well, I mean, when he mentioned all your years of study, I...I expected some ancient scholar."

"Well, I hope you're not too disappointed, Miss Camberly," Fielding offered, self-conscious and self-deprecating. "Inside I'm really an old fogey."

"Please, call me Edna," Miss Camberly requested.

Immediately her students reacted with knowing whoops, and their headmistress seemed jolted out of a spell. "Uh..." She blew the whistle hanging around her neck and admonished, "I believe this is supposed to be a soccer practice!" She turned to the girl standing beside Leslie and added, "I'm leaving you in charge of the warmup, Susan."

"Okay, Miss Camberly," the girl agreed, grabbing a soccer ball and leading her classmates farther out onto the lawn at a run. "Let's go." Laughing, the other girls followed her; Leslie watched them, wondering whether they lived here on the island or if they came from other places.

Edna turned back to Roarke, Leslie and Fielding and explained, "They're really lovely girls; they're just a bit immature. I only hope the ghost...whatever it is that's frightening them can be dealt with before they all leave. Any more cancellations and I'll have to close the school."

Her dejected expression prompted Roarke to reassure her with, "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary. And now, may I wish you both the very best of luck. Will you excuse me?" He gestured to Leslie, but Edna stopped him.

"Just a second, Mr. Roarke," she said, and Roarke paused. "I know I haven't seen you for some time, but I didn't know you had a ward."

"She's been here just a month," said Roarke, and outlined Leslie's history. "I had briefly considered enrolling her here, but since this is a boarding school and she has already been through her share of upheaval, I felt it best that she attend the local junior high school and make her home at the main house with me. Besides, she's not quite fourteen yet, so she wouldn't have been eligible."

Edna nodded. "I understand. Still..." She smiled. "Well, anyway, welcome to the island, Leslie. How do you like it so far?"

"It's fascinating," Leslie said honestly. "I really like it. I, um...I hope you figure out this ghost, or whatever it is." She tossed a glance at the girls, now well into their soccer practice. "Are they really afraid of this thing? Because, well, it's just that..." She cleared her throat. "I really don't think there's any ghost around here."

Even Roarke seemed startled by her temerity, and studied her with interest. "No?" He took in her headshake and then looked at Fielding and Edna with a broad smile. "It appears we have a skeptic in our midst." Fielding's expression was of consternation; Edna simply looked worried.

"You wouldn't say that if you'd been here to see what's going on," she told Leslie. "It's really got the girls spooked, and some of them have even seen it."

Leslie tipped her head slightly to one side, still not ready to accept the idea of a ghost; but then she noticed the way Roarke was regarding her and began to regret having opened her mouth. "Perhaps," Roarke began, "if I left you here with Mr. Fielding to, uh, assist..."

Fielding yanked his spine up straight. "Oh, no, Mr. Roarke...you don't have to...uh, that is, I always work alone." He cleared his throat loudly. "Besides, it could be dangerous, ghost or no ghost. After all, there has to be something around here...there must be a good reason they're all so scared. So it could be, you know, dangerous." He shrugged. "Just taking precautions, y'know."

Roarke's smile was slow and knowing, but he gave in. "Very well. As I said, best of luck. Come along, Leslie."

This time she followed him, hearing Edna suggest that maybe she should show Fielding around the house, and glanced back just in time to dodge the soccer ball that bounced toward her. "I'll get it," yelled Fielding, and Leslie stopped altogether to watch him perform a few quick tricks with the ball before sending it back to the girls with a good, solid kick. They let out impressed exclamations, and even Edna looked astonished.

"What a great kick! You must've been a soccer star at school," she blurted.

"Uh, no, actually, I've never played the game before, but I've...read about it," Fielding admitted with a shrug. Leslie grinned and turned back toward the rover finally, almost sorry the man had advised against her staying. She wondered whether she could talk Roarke into coming back here and at least checking up on Fielding, Edna, and the alleged ghost.

‡ ‡ ‡

Back at the main house, Leslie was more than a little surprised to see that there was some kind of party in full swing, in the expanse of lawn just to the left of the house. Two identical signs standing on easels beside each other advertised the "Fantasy Island Twin Convention", which was complete news to her. "Twin convention?" she blurted, staring at the signs. "This is new." She wanted to make a teasing remark of some sort about the matching signs, but didn't feel comfortable enough yet to do so; besides, the whole concept was a startling reminder to her of her own deceased twin sisters, Kristy and Kelly, who she knew would have loved this sort of thing.

"I had this planned for some time before you arrived, Leslie," Roarke explained, stopping the car and scanning the lawn. "Ah, there's Ms. Gates."

They got out of the car and Roarke introduced Tattoo and Leslie, who nodded and smiled in response to Carol Gates' reserved hello. Roarke then gestured them all forward; Carol fell into step beside him, while Leslie trailed a few steps behind with her hands jammed into the pockets of the white shorts she'd worn to the plane dock for lack of anything as formal as her guardian wore. Tattoo was several more steps behind her, craning his neck every time a pair of attractive female twins strolled past. One duo of blondes in matching red dresses passed by them, and Leslie peered over her shoulder long enough to see Tattoo pivot on one foot to watch them go by before veering off after them as if he were being pulled by some invisible leash.

She was still half smiling to herself when she joined Roarke and Carol, who had come to a stop at a drinks bar. "Oh," Carol blurted low, "a twin convention...that's how you got them here."

"That's right," murmured Roarke, nodding and smiling. "Would you care for a drink?"

Carol declined, and he asked whether she minded if he had one; he thanked her and lifted the nearest glass, but it was clear that she had exactly one thing on her mind. "Which ones are mine?" she asked intensely, a pleading expression on her face that for some reason made Leslie sadly nostalgic for Kristy and Kelly and their antics. She turned her back on the gathering, a quiet melancholy stealing over her while the oblivious Carol Gates focused on Roarke. Roarke, for his part, sensed the downturn in Leslie's mood, but for the moment he left the girl to her own devices. Though she hadn't been here long, she knew that his guests always came first.

Roarke cast a quick glance over his shoulder, then asked low, "Do you see the young lady in the blue dress, sitting over there?" Carol peered past him, searching, and Leslie saw her brighten at something as Roarke murmured, "She is your daughter."

For the first time, Carol Gates genuinely smiled. "She's lovely," she murmured.

"Yes," Roarke agreed.

"What did they call her?" Carol queried.

Roarke replied, "Tracy. Her name is Tracy Miller."

"Tracy," Carol mumbled and nodded, almost laughing. "That's nice. I...I thought of a whole bunch of them one day...Audrey, Helen, Joyce, Kate, Megan..." Her eyes drifted back to her daughter. "But Tracy's good." She nodded, and Leslie noticed the onset of nervousness in the woman.

"Very good," Roarke agreed, watching Carol.

"Is that...her husband?" Carol ventured, still staring at Tracy. Leslie let herself take a look over her shoulder, but Tracy sat far enough away that she couldn't make out the woman's features well.

Then Roarke said, "Unfortunately, her husband...Jim Miller...was killed in a motor accident, three months ago." His voice was soft and compassionate, and he nodded gently when Carol stared up at him in horror.

"Oh, my poor baby," she murmured. "I hope her...her parents were able to help her through it."

Leslie sensed bad news in Roarke's expression, and sure enough, he said regretfully, "I'm afraid not. You see, the people who adopted your children were an elderly couple, and they passed away while the children were still in college."

Carol seemed stunned. "Oh, wow," she managed, resting her head in one hand and clearly trying to absorb all she was hearing. Finally she pushed out the question: "Did they ever tell the children they were adopted?"

"Yes. Yes, they thought it best, and uh, more honest."

Carol nodded, as if she had no idea what to do with this revelation, and there was a moment's lull in which Roarke chose a glass and handed it to Leslie, returning her smile of thanks. Then he gestured back to the clearing. "Uh...the young man talking to the little boy...his name is Tom Dearborn; that's his wife Jo and their little son Jamie. Tom is your son." As Carol turned to feast her eyes on the sight of her son, daughter-in-law and grandson, Roarke went on, "At one time Tom was a promising football rookie—a field-goal-kicking specialist. But, uh, he sells insurance now...that is, now and then." He eyed Carol for her reaction as he lifted his glass and took a sip of the lemonade in it.

Carol said nothing, still gazing at her son, and Roarke lowered the glass and smiled. "Are you ready to meet them?"

Carol's eyes, already wide with wonder and some surprise over what she had heard, became even bigger, gleaming with sudden panic. "As what? I mean, I, uh, I just can't walk up and say, 'Uh, hi there, nice day...by the way, I'm the mother who walked away from you thirty years ago!' No, I can't."

"Of course not, Ms. Gates," Roarke assured her, smiling with a touch of amusement. "It's not necessary to reveal who you really are. At least," he amended, "not yet." He regarded her, but she seemed reluctant to move, which struck Leslie as a bit odd after all her excitement about Tom and Tracy and the reason she was here in the first place. Roarke reached out as if to guide Carol and urged, "Come, come."

Carol finally let herself be convinced, and Leslie lingered behind with a glass of the same lemonade Roarke had chosen, watching her guardian escort his guest over to the table where Tracy Dearborn Miller sat with a strange man. Nearby her brother was just giving his wife a kiss. Leslie listened, gazing on, as Roarke broke into Tracy's conversation. "Mrs. Miller, Mr. and Mrs. Dearborn, may I introduce Ms. Carol Gates." Tracy stood up as Roarke indicated Carol. "She's the hostess I promised you during your stay on the island." _Huh,_ Leslie thought, _so that's her disguise. At least for now, it is. I wonder what Tom and Tracy will say when they find out the truth?_

Jo Dearborn responded first. "Oh, how do you do?" She shook hands with Carol.

Tom followed suit. "Hi," he greeted Carol and glanced at Roarke. "Pretty, too," he commented.

Leslie thought Carol's voice sounded embarrassed as she thanked Tom, and at the same time Tracy extended a hand and shook. "I'm glad to meet you, Ms. Gates," she said.

"Oh, not...not half as glad as I am to meet you," Carol managed, her voice small and a little uncertain so that Leslie almost didn't hear her from where she stood. Smiles were exchanged all around, and she turned away once more and hung over the bar, drinking deeply from her lemonade glass and thinking about families—the one Carol Gates had just found and the one Leslie had lost not so long ago. _I think I should've stayed at the Camberly School for Girls after all,_ she pondered morosely, poking at an ice cube in her glass.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § - March 3, 1979

Having left Carol Gates with Tom, Tracy and Jo, Roarke came back to take Leslie into the main house, pausing along the way to look around the clearing. "Hmm...that's strange. What happened to Tattoo?" he wondered idly.

"Oh, one of the sets of twins caught his eye," Leslie said, and at his questioning look, added, "You know...tall, young, blonde, beautiful..."

Roarke's expression grew wry. "Say no more," he advised, and she let out a halfhearted snicker, though no more than that. He grew serious and put a hand on her shoulder to guide her back to the house. "I think you and I need to have a little discussion."

She knew what he wanted to ask her about, and didn't bother reacting, simply let him lead her inside. A moment later, still holding her half-full lemonade glass, she was seated in one of the club chairs in front of her guardian's desk, and he had taken the other. He waited till she finally dared peek over her glass at him before leaning forward a little and saying point-blank, "You miss your sisters, don't you, child?"

Leslie froze utterly, staring in disbelief at him over the glass, which still rested against her lips. "How do you know that's what I was thinking?" she exclaimed.

Roarke settled back and shrugged slightly, in a self-deprecating manner. "Ah, well, it wasn't so difficult to discern. Naturally, a convention for twins would remind you of your sisters...Kristy and, uh, Katie?"

"Kelly," Leslie said, and he nodded.

"Ah, yes, that's right...my apologies. Kristy and Kelly." He resettled himself in his chair, as if seeking a more comfortable position, and Leslie began to get the sense that he had known Kelly's name all the time. "Why don't you tell me about them, hm?"

She peered at him warily, still using her lemonade glass as a shield, and wondered why on earth he was showing so much interest in her sisters. "Well, they were...they were identical twins, and they were two years younger than me, and Kristy was eight minutes older. She...um...well, Kelly..." Leslie groped for a moment, her mind gone inexplicably blank, and sat still with her mouth hanging open as if waiting for the next word to emerge. But what came out surprised her even more than it did Roarke—if, she would reflect later, he had been surprised at all. "Mr. Roarke, how come you're asking me about my sisters? I mean, you never asked before."

Roarke regarded her in silence for a few seconds, then smiled. "Perhaps I was merely waiting for the right moment," he suggested, his voice gentle. "I had hoped that you yourself might wish to talk about them, and about your mother. After all, it's been barely six months since the fire."

Shock encased Leslie where she sat, and for a moment she forgot where she was, her surroundings, her new guardian—everything but the stunning realization that only six months had passed since she had become the last living member of her family. It didn't seem possible, for so much had happened in those six months: enduring being roommates with Cindy Lou Brooks while watching their friendship steadily erode; appearing in court last November for the brief reading of her mother's equally brief will; waiting and waiting for the lawyers to carry out Shannon Hamilton's wishes; and, after what had seemed forever, moving here to Fantasy Island and discovering exactly what sort of place she was going to be living in for the next seven or eight years at least. It felt as though she'd lived half a lifetime; how could it be only six months? She closed her burning, stinging eyes and began to drain her glass, fiercely willing herself not to cry. _When you're alone, then you can do it, but not now!_ she told herself sternly.

"Leslie, are you all right?" she heard Roarke ask, at the same moment she swallowed the last of the lemonade and the ice cubes slid down the glass to collide with her nose. She blinked, lowered the glass and shook her head hard, then rubbed the tip of her nose.

"Sorry," she mumbled, unable to look at him. "It really is just six months, isn't it..."

She was too caught up in her swirling emotions, and trying too hard to keep them under control, to notice the deeply concerned look on Roarke's face. He watched her as she silently battled back her grief, disappointment sliding through him. It had been his hope that this serendipitous moment would open the gates for Leslie to let out the grief she had been holding back ever since she'd arrived here. He had never seen her cry; she'd come close once or twice, and he could see that even now she was fighting to keep her eyes dry. It worried him; she needed to let it out, and he wasn't certain how he could get her to do it. He knew it must have something to do with her father. He could still remember Shannon Hamilton's brief but telling references to her husband, enough to inform him that Leslie would have some sort of emotional handicap as she grew up; but he had never been able to see the future, despite Tattoo's occasional accusations, and he'd had no way of knowing exactly what malice Michael Hamilton would wreak on Leslie and her sisters. Now he could see it: somehow Leslie had been taught not to cry, for whatever reasons. He reflected ruefully to himself that he might have been able to coax her to talk if she'd been just a guest with a fantasy; but she was his ward, and while he had raised a few other orphans in the past, they had all been nearly finished with their high-school careers and had been with him no more than two or three years at most. Leslie was younger than all the rest of them and just venturing into the most potentially volatile time of her life—and he would have to help navigate her through those teen years without benefit of a guidance manual or even a partner to co-parent with him. Shannon Hamilton had left him with more of a challenge than even he had anticipated when he'd agreed back in 1965 to raise her orphaned daughter.

He watched Leslie stare at the ice cubes in her glass, and queried at last, "Does it seem to you that it's been longer than that?"

She nodded a little, without looking up, and he waited another thirty seconds without result before relenting, still disappointed. "Well, I simply thought you might like to talk about it," he said quietly, and arose, patting her shoulder. "There's no hurry; whenever you're ready, that's fine."

She still said nothing, but watched him retreat behind the desk and take his seat there. The despondency that filled her at his withdrawal surprised her, and the blues came on stronger than ever, for she was convinced now that it was too late, that she'd missed an opportunity to talk with Roarke and try to get to know him a little, as well as telling him about herself and her family. She was going to have to live with this man for several years, and if she kept balking from his overtures, they'd be long, lonely years. She knew this on some level, but there were too many trust issues, and the changes in her life were still too recent. Her arrival here was too fresh, and she had yet to shake the feeling that she was out of place. Part of her wanted to ask him if she could go back to the Camberly School just to check up on Elliott Fielding, Edna Camberly, and her students; but the bigger part of her was too intimidated to venture the request, and Leslie at last gave up, rising from her chair and leaving the study without a word, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Fortunately for both Leslie and Roarke, Tattoo was back in time to join them for lunch, and he didn't seem to notice the charged gulf between his boss and the girl, carrying on about the attributes of the assorted female sets of twins he'd been meeting at the convention and bemoaning the fact that not one of the women had consented to a date with him. By the time the meal ended, Roarke found himself a little exasperated by his assistant's antics, and remarked drolly, "It appears to me that you spent the past hour and a half doing nothing more than stalking every pair of identical female twins on the island for this convention. Perhaps now that you've struck out with all of them, you might find a little time to get back to your job."

Tattoo shot him a mortally wounded look that even Leslie could see was exaggerated, just a little bit. "Oh, boss!" the Frenchman groaned reproachfully. The expression on his face was priceless, and she sputtered a little, driven to laugh in spite of herself. Tattoo glared at her, but Roarke grinned and winked, and all of a sudden she felt a little better.

In fact, she couldn't resist teasing Tattoo: "Still trying to be the king of laughter around here? Maybe that's what turned off all the girls." She was rewarded with a chuckle from Roarke, and decided that the even blacker glower she got from Tattoo in reply was worth it.

‡ ‡ ‡

After lunch, Roarke went to the plane dock to meet some new arrivals, leaving Leslie and Tattoo in the study watching the ongoing twin convention in the yard outside the windows. After a while Tattoo surprised her by remarking, "So the boss says you had twin sisters. How come you didn't tell him about them when he asked?"

Leslie stared at him, so caught off guard at the question that she couldn't think at all. As she gaped at him, she felt her face begin to burn and knew she had to be blushing to the point of detonation; and Tattoo clearly saw it, for he smiled a little and offered, "I didn't mean to embarrass you, but I just thought you'd be more willing to talk about it."

Leslie shook her head before she really thought about it. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just not ready yet." She sprang off the settee where she'd been sitting and put her back to the window, pacing a few steps across the room till she came up against one of the club chairs. "I'm starting to wish I'd stayed over at Miss Camberly's school."

Before Tattoo could respond to that, the door opened and they both looked around to see Roarke in the foyer. "Tattoo, would you mind very much monitoring the telephone for me?" he asked, and Tattoo agreed, going back behind the desk. "Leslie, come with me, please."

Unsure as to whether he had a purpose for her accompanying him, she simply nodded and followed him out to a waiting rover. She was startled to see that she had to get into the very back because the front passenger seat and the middle seat were taken up by three brawny men in shiny purple warmup jackets. She threw Roarke a quizzical glance, but he merely gestured her into the car. "I'll explain shortly," he promised. "We're in a bit of a hurry."

The conversation was sparse as they drove down toward the clearing where the Saturday-night luaus were held; set back from the Ring Road, there were a few smaller clearings, some empty, some occupied. Roarke pulled a hard left into the last one before the luau clearing and drove directly across the grass to where Leslie now recognized Carol Gates, Tom and Jo and Jamie Dearborn, and Tracy Miller. As soon as Roarke stopped the car, he and the three other men got out, with Leslie lagging because she had to clamber gracelessly over the back of the middle seat to get out of the car. "Mr. Dearborn," Roarke called as she was still sliding across the seat, "I believe you know Coach Malavesi of the Los Angeles Rams."

Leslie emerged from the car in time to see Tom shaking hands with the coach. "Sure do," he said, a broad smile on his face.

"The Rams are here working out for a charity game," Roarke explained, while Leslie sidled nearby, spying Tom's son Jamie sitting in a tire swing gazing avidly on from just behind the men. "Of course, you know Anthony Davis, and Frank Corral." Tom nodded and shook hands with the other two men, who Leslie assumed must be members of the Rams team. She didn't care for football and knew as little about it as anyone possibly could; but she admitted to being impressed by Roarke's casual ease with these well-known people.

When the greetings had been exchanged, Roarke inquired, "Uh, Coach, didn't you tell me that Mr. Dearborn was once a very promising soccer-style kicker?"

"One of the best, a few years ago," concurred Coach Malavesi.

"Hey," protested Tom, taking lighthearted offense, "I might still be, you know! I, uh, played a little semi-pro last season...didn't do too bad." As he spoke, Leslie noted a movement in her peripheral vision and looked around to see Jo's disheartened face falling; Tracy, standing next to her, looked no happier about it, and was watching her sister-in-law as though in sympathy. Leslie began to wonder what was going on. Meantime, Tom went on, "I'm just waiting for someone to give me a tryout."

"Why don't you drop by our practice field in the morning and work out?" offered the coach, as Carol tuned in to the undercurrents zinging around the clearing. There was a gently curious look on her face, as if she intended to ask all about this at the first opportunity, and for once Leslie felt encouraged to realize that she wasn't the only one who had no idea what the story was.

"Are you serious?" Tom asked.

"Sure, you can work out with some of our players," suggested the coach.

Tom tossed Roarke a look, and Roarke gave him an encouraging nod. It seemed to be all he needed to accept, and he extended his hand again. "I'll be there, coach."

"Gentlemen?" Roarke prompted, and the men exchanged quick farewells while Carol smiled at her son and then glanced over toward Tracy and Jo, only then seeing their responses. Part of Leslie wanted to linger and learn the background; the other part of her wanted just to leave, for remaining here at what was clearly a private cookout would be a serious breach of etiquette. Still, she wondered, as she dutifully trailed Roarke back to the car and resigned herself to squeezing into the back again.

Roarke and Leslie dropped off the men at their practice field, at Leslie's junior high school, and Leslie was relieved to take the front passenger seat beside her guardian again. "Mr. Roarke," she said, "didn't you see the look on Mrs. Dearborn's face when you brought those football players over? She wasn't happy at all."

Roarke glanced at her as he accelerated along the road. "I'm well aware of the family dynamics, Leslie," he assured her. "Mrs. Dearborn is in fact threatening divorce if her husband plays again."

"But..." Leslie began, trying to get her mind around it and failing. At last she blurted out what she was really thinking, too confused and bewildered to do otherwise. "Then that means you're just pushing them right into divorce court if you give Mr. Dearborn the chance to play football!"

"Am I?" responded Roarke with little concern.

"Well, it sounds like it to me, if you know his wife doesn't want him playing." Leslie shifted in her seat and shook her head to herself. "I, um...could I go stay at the Camberly School for the weekend?"

She could see she had broadsided her guardian with this question; he almost stopped the car, which for some reason gave her a small measure of satisfaction that she'd managed to catch him by surprise. "Whatever for?" he wanted to know.

All the things she hadn't been able to say earlier piled up behind the dam in her mind. _Because I don't want to keep being reminded of my sisters all weekend. Because this fantasy is too sad. Because it's been only six months since Mom and the twins died, and I don't feel like being around you or Tattoo right now. Because I want the distraction and I want to find out what the story is behind that silly ghost business!_ But all that came out, in the end, was, "I just do."

Roarke studied her, casting the occasional quick glance at the road ahead as he let the car coast. She knew he was giving her the chance to elaborate, but she didn't feel like enlightening him. While she was slowly growing accustomed to living under his roof and adjusting to his routines and the relatively few rules he had set out for her, she still wasn't really at ease and sometimes was convinced she never truly would be. She avoided his gaze, watching the scenery slide past.

Finally, again, Roarke gave in and said, almost brusquely, "Perhaps later we'll go to check on Mr. Fielding. For now, I have a few phone calls to make." He applied the gas again, and Leslie slumped a bit in the seat, gnawing on the corner of her lip hard enough to hurt, holding herself tense and alert. She felt out of place, and had the odd urge to take herself elsewhere somehow, as if she should be going back where she belonged. But where _did_ she belong, really? She had nowhere else to go, and anyway, she didn't really want to go back to California. Her eyes began to sting again, and she trained them stubbornly on the roadside, determined not to allow any tears to fall.

Tattoo watched them come in when they got back, and Leslie suspected by the three or four bounces of his glance between her and Roarke that he had caught the tense aura around them. He put down the book he had been reading and hopped out of Roarke's chair. "Hi, boss," he said. "Be right back. You didn't get any calls."

"Very well, thank you, my friend," said Roarke, and Tattoo nodded and left the room, eyeing Leslie for a few seconds as he walked past her. She looked away from him too, compressing her lips and wishing she had the courage to just walk out and go wherever the whim might take her. Instead, she settled for lowering herself uneasily into a club chair. With nothing to do, she wished desperately for a book to read, so she could at least look as if she were occupied.

Roarke made his calls, then picked up a book with a blank red cover and began to read. Just as Leslie was about to take the chance to flee up to her room, Tattoo came back in, bearing a tray holding three glasses of clear liquid with a slice of lime floating inside each glass. He paused beside Leslie, who reached for one of the glasses, only to have Tattoo shake his head rapidly a few times at her and indicate one of the others with a tilt of the head. She shot him a questioning look, but he only winked, and she shrugged, lifting the indicated glass and murmuring a nearly silent thanks. He smiled back and continued on with the tray to the desk, where he offered it to Roarke.

"Oh," said Roarke, pleasantly surprised, "thank you, Tattoo." Leslie, now watching with full attention because of the anticipatory smile on Tattoo's face, raised her glass and took a cautious sip, finding the contents to be limeade and very tasty.

"Don't mention it," said Tattoo cheerfully, placing the tray atop the desk and claiming the last glass. He turned to Roarke and raised it. "Bottoms up."

Roarke nodded, snapped the book closed and put it on the desk, and drank—and froze there, glass still tipped to his lips, while said glass leaked all over his lap. Tattoo snorted with glee into his own tumbler; Leslie blinked once in disbelief and stared at Tattoo, then peered at Roarke with a little trepidation, nervously awaiting his reaction.

Roarke turned to his snickering assistant and proceeded to point out the obvious. "Tattoo, this glass...there is something wrong with it."

"It's called a dribble glass!" Tattoo explained, barely able to keep from giving in to his mirth. "Pretty funny, huh?"

"Oh, hysterical," Roarke assured him dryly.

"I got a million of them—a _million!"_ Tattoo blurted gleefully.

Roarke set the glass on the desk. "Yes...that's what I'm afraid of." Annoyed but resigned, he whipped the black handkerchief from his jacket breast pocket and began to mop up the mess, while Tattoo chortled happily.

In the end, Roarke had to go upstairs to change clothes; only when he was gone did Leslie set down her own glass and lean over to examine the trick one Roarke had taken. Finally she eyed Tattoo and asked, "What'd you do that for?"

Bright-eyed with hope, Tattoo replied, "You looked like you needed cheering up, both you and the boss. And I figured, hey, he's a good sport, so why not make him the butt of the joke?"

She tossed a dubious glance toward the stairs. "I'm not sure he liked it very much." She pushed her hands into her pockets again and hunched her shoulders. "I think I'm going to take a walk."

That finally sobered Tattoo. "Where?"

"Just...wherever," Leslie evaded, edging around the desk toward the French shutters. "I'll be back by suppertime. You can tell Mr. Roarke that for me, okay? Please?" Without waiting for his response, she escaped as swiftly as she could take to her heels, so desperate for time alone that she gave no thought to what kind of reaction either Tattoo or Roarke might have to her vanishing act.

When she was sure she'd gotten away, she slowed to a walk, not certain of her destination, knowing only that she simply had to get away. She couldn't have said what was driving her; it was just a compulsion, one that she had to give in to or go out of her mind. As she plodded down the trail, she gave some thought to visiting one or another of her friends; but Myeko was too boisterous and Lauren a bit too reserved, and even friendly, sympathetic Michiko was still too new a friend for Leslie to feel comfortable confiding in her. Everything, for that matter, was still too new; she had nothing familiar left to take solace in and give herself an anchor while she adjusted to her new home and new life. _You're being stupid, Leslie Hamilton,_ something inside her scolded. _You don't want to go back to Susanville, and you could never go back to Connecticut either. You can't go anywhere because you don't have anybody to go to, even if you could leave this island. This is all you have now, and you might as well get used to it!_ But the thought, however appealing on the surface given where she was now, made her shudder a little. _Is this what they call culture shock?_ she wondered, not quite sure she fully understood the meaning of the phrase. _Or is it just because I've totally started over and I don't have a single thing left that I used to have before the fire?_ Other than a few clothes, which she would soon outgrow anyway, and a little photo album with her favorite snapshots of herself, the twins and her mother—all secretly pilfered from a larger family photo album that she supposed was now nothing more than ashes back on Banner Street in Susanville—she had come to this island with just about nothing to her name. Her duffel bag and its contents had been the sum total of all she now owned in the world; the only other thing she had left was her memories. And they weren't enough, she realized, not now when she was so overwhelmed by the way her life had been turned inside out.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she startled herself when she stepped out onto the southern arm of the Ring Road, just in time to see the island shuttle bus approaching. Without even thinking about it, she got aboard when it stopped for her, and she fell into the first empty seat, hoping no one else would decide to sit beside her. She let her head fall against the window and tried to lose herself in her ruminations again; but her train of thought seemed to have been irretrievably broken, and all she could do was watch the abundant plant life sail past. She caught frequent glimpses of the ocean through breaks in the trees, and now and then a colorful bird or two flashed across the sky or swooped down onto a branch.

It took Leslie a little while to realize where she was and where she was headed; but when it occurred to her, she pondered it with growing interest. Well, why not? She could use the distraction; her own mind was no comfortable place to be just now anyway. She began to watch the other side of the road, and when she recognized the twisting private drive that led to the Camberly School for Girls, she yanked hard on the stop-request cord. The driver hit the brakes and gave her a strange look, but said nothing as she got out and began the hike up the driveway.

The sun was quite low in the sky when she reached the mansion, and in the front yard she could see Edna Camberly's twelve remaining students sitting in a wide circle on the grass, chatting and tossing the soccer ball at one another. When she came into sight, several of them paused to stare at her, and their distracted attention led the other girls to follow suit. Horrified to find she was the center of attention, Leslie stopped dead in the driveway and began to sorely regret she'd ever come here.

"Hey, you okay?" shouted one of the girls then, and she and a couple of others got to their feet and approached her while the others resumed tossing the ball and chatting.

"I'm all right," Leslie mumbled, unsure whether she was telling the truth.

The three girls reached her and peered down the driveway behind her. "Where's Mr. Roarke?" one asked.

"I...back at the main house, I guess," Leslie said, her voice small and intimidated. "I just...came here on my own."

The girls exchanged glances, and for a moment Leslie was sure they would tell her to go away, or start making fun of her, or some such thing. But then the girl she remembered being told by Edna Camberly to take charge of the soccer practice spoke up. "I'm Susan," she said. "What's your name again? I mean, I know Mr. Roarke introduced you, but I forgot...sorry."

"My name's Leslie," she said softly.

One of the other girls smiled. "I'm Donna," she said.

"I'm Angie," the third girl put in. "Well, hey, since you're here—want to stay and eat supper with us here? We can tell you all about this ghost." Leslie noticed Susan turn pale, but neither Angie nor Donna seemed to notice. "And we'll let Miss Camberly know you're here."

"Do we have to?" blurted Leslie before she stopped to think.

Angie, Susan and Donna looked at each other, then at her; then Donna grinned knowingly. "I get it. You must've run away from home."

"At least for a while," Angie put in.

Susan seemed dubious. "Why would you do that? Mr. Roarke said you're his ward, and I've seen his house. It's as pretty as this place, in a different way. And he's always been really nice to all of us." She tipped forward and squinted at Leslie. "Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

"I'm fine," Leslie insisted finally, wanting nothing more than to get off the subject, and seizing on the only guaranteed distraction. "Tell me about this ghost. What's the story with that?"

Again Donna, Susan and Angie exchanged glances; at the same moment two more girls joined them, introducing themselves as Heather and Lauralyn. "Isn't that Mr. Roarke's ward?" Heather asked, studying Leslie with interest.

"She's hanging out with us a while, and we're going to tell her about the ghost," Donna announced, with the finality of someone who was used to being in charge. "And we're not gonna tell Miss Camberly, at least not yet. Come on, Leslie. We'll smuggle you in, and then we'll give you the scoop on the ghost." She bade the other girls surround Leslie, hiding her to some extent from quick sight, and they all ventured toward the house. Jet planes roared to life in Leslie's stomach, but she'd gone too far to back out now. Besides, she really wanted to hear about this ghost—so what could the harm be, in the end? She let herself be led, anticipating the adventure ahead.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § - March 3, 1979

Donna and Susan shared a room on the third floor, and between them, Angie, Lauralyn and Heather, they got Leslie up the stairs and to their room without incident. Neither Edna Camberly nor Elliott Fielding was anywhere in sight, though the lobby and the elegant old sitting room beyond were littered with Fielding's ghost-hunting paraphernalia. The students took little notice of it, though Leslie kept shooting glances at it as they climbed the winding stairway at the left of the front door. There was little doubt in her mind that it was all for naught.

In Donna and Susan's room, the girls scattered around, flopping on the beds, leaning back or slumping against the walls. Leslie, uncertain, found herself standing in the middle of the room like a piece of statuary on display, wondering if she should join somebody atop a bed, or find a chair, or sit on the floor where she would have to look up at all the others like a small child. Angie saved her from overthinking it any further: "Take my spot, Leslie. I'll pop downstairs and get some snacks. Supper should be in another hour."

"We can't take her down to supper," Susan spoke up. "Miss Camberly'll see her."

"Miss Camberly will see whom?" asked a voice, and all six girls' gazes shot to the door, where their headmistress herself had paused to gaze into the room. Her eyes lit on Leslie and she straightened with surprise. "Leslie, isn't it? What are you doing here?" She smiled suddenly. "Checking up?"

As much as Leslie wanted to tell her yes, she knew that she'd be found out, and it prompted her to shake her head, just as the room lit and flickered for two or three seconds. "N-no, I...Mr. Roarke doesn't know I'm here," she admitted, flashing a nervous glance out the French doors facing the front of the house. Sure enough, before Edna could respond, there was a low rumble of distant thunder.

Edna's expression changed a little as she considered it. "I see," she mused, though it was clear from her tone that she didn't. However, she didn't question Leslie; instead her face took on a look of gentle reproval. "Don't you think you should let him know?"

Leslie hunched her shoulders, flaming with mortification at being found out so easily in front of a bunch of older girls who probably thought she was a silly little kid. "I guess so," she mumbled.

"I'll take you down and you can call him," Edna offered with a little smile. She didn't wait for Leslie's reply, but swept her gaze across the other girls, and Leslie dared glance around her and saw to her surprise that they looked a little sheepish too. "You ladies didn't really think you could get away with hiding Leslie in here all night," she said quizzically.

The room flickered again, and Donna gestured to the French door. "Well, we might've had to, Miss Camberly," she said. "There's a storm coming, and she can't walk all the way home in that. Or even to the bus stop. She might as well stay put."

"Mr. Roarke might decide to come pick her up," Edna reminded the girl, and Donna shrugged and smiled conciliation while thunder rolled again outside. "Come on, Leslie, you can call Mr. Roarke, and we'll see what he wants to do."

Dreading the confrontation, Leslie shuffled reluctantly behind Edna, down the hall and the steps back to the first floor. If she expected to get home, she thought morosely, Roarke would have to come and get her; she had seen no vehicles around the mansion, and she was too frightened of thunderstorms to be willing to make that long walk down the driveway to the Ring Road and then wait for the next bus to come along. She hung her head and watched Edna's feet all the way down.

In the lobby near the stairs, Elliott Fielding stood with a contraption that looked a great deal like a metal detector. He was adjusting something on the handle and looked up when Edna and Leslie stepped off the staircase. "Oh, hi," he said and grinned in that self-deprecating, half-embarrassed way he had. "I was just getting ready to, well...check the grounds."

"In this weather?" Edna asked with surprise.

"The storm's a good ways off yet," said Fielding, "and besides, weather means nothing to a ghost. They'll walk no matter what it's like outside." He seemed utterly serious to Leslie, who for a moment or two had forgotten her worries and was watching him with her disbelief threatening to burst from her in the form of some ill-advised comment or question. "Besides," Fielding added with a solemn nod, "this is perfect weather for spooks anyway. All the better to scare you with."

"You have a good point there," remarked Edna in a voice that to Leslie sounded a bit fawning. The headmistress smiled broadly at him. "You're so sensible, Elliott. Good luck in your search."

Fielding thanked her and left, and Edna turned back to Leslie. "Come with me—the phone's in here." She led Leslie into the dark-paneled sitting room, filled with formal-looking leather-upholstered furniture, expensive lamps and even more expensive artwork, an organ at the wall beside the fireplace, and a number of tall potted plants. There was a phone on the far side of the room near a three-paneled bow window with colored glass in the top panes. With a nod and an encouraging smile, Edna gestured at the phone, then wandered to the other side of the room to give Leslie a semblance of privacy.

Leslie shuddered with dread, slowly picking up the phone. She dialed each of the three digits in the number to the main house as if she had to search through her memory for them, though in truth she had memorized the number after her third weekend on the island, when she'd been trying to find Tattoo and had ended up chasing him fruitlessly all the way to the other end of the island, unable to get in touch with either him or Roarke because she hadn't known the main-house phone number and hadn't thought to ask anyone. As soon as she had dialed the 1 on the old-fashioned rotary-dial phone, the buzzes began, and Leslie wrapped her free arm across her stomach. The jet planes in her gut had grown into a veritable fleet, and she was afraid she might be sick.

"Yes?" she heard Roarke's voice demand after the first ring.

Startled, Leslie became speechless, and only after Roarke barked, "Who is this?" was she jolted into making a response. Shakily she identified herself.

There was a long breath on the other end, and Leslie squeezed her eyes shut. "Leslie, where on earth are you?" her guardian exclaimed. His voice was still urgent, but Leslie didn't think she could detect any anger in it, and her eyes flew open with surprise at the realization.

"I'm at Miss Camberly's school," she told him. "I, um..." She hesitated another second before the words tumbled out. "I had to go someplace and be alone for a while, and I know I promised Tattoo I'd be back by supper, but I didn't know I was gonna walk so far, and when I realized where I was, there was a bus coming and I just got on it 'cause I wasn't ready to come back yet. I didn't think I was going to end up here, but it's just...well, I mean, it just ended up that way. I...I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke. If I scared you or something, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"Tattoo and I have been very worried about you, you know," Roarke admonished, but without any real rancor. "When you didn't appear for the evening meal, Mana'olana asked about you as well, and we had to tell her we didn't know what had happened to you." Lightning flashed outside, and at the same time Leslie heard a scratch of static across the phone line. She flinched back from the windows. Evidently the storm was visible from the main house too, for Roarke said, "Well, perhaps it's best that you remain where you are for the moment. There's a storm on its way, and I'd prefer you not be out in the middle of it. Put Miss Camberly on the line, if you would, please."

Leslie held out the phone to Edna. "Mr. Roarke wants to talk to you," she said.

While Edna was on the line with Roarke, Leslie hugged herself, trying to figure out her guardian's tone of voice. She had fully expected he'd be furious with her. Her father always had been that way, no matter how small the infraction she or her sisters committed. She had no other frame of reference, and she was discombobulated by Roarke's apparent attitude—concern, rather than rage. It was foreign to her, and she pondered it with bewilderment and some wonder.

"Leslie," said Edna then, and she was startled from her thoughts again. "Mr. Roarke asked to speak to you again."

"H-hi, Mr. Roarke," said Leslie a little inanely into the phone.

"I've obtained Miss Camberly's kind permission for you to remain at the school as long as the weather is inclement," Roarke said. "You can eat supper there with her students, but make sure you stay out of Mr. Fielding's way, and be a good guest." Suddenly, to her shock, he chuckled. "You did ask if we could check up on Mr. Fielding. If you like, you might discreetly observe, and when you're back here—whenever that may be—you can report anything you see to me."

"Oh," was all that fell from Leslie's mouth; she was too stunned to think.

"If you would," added Roarke after a second or two, his voice softening.

Some of Leslie's wits returned. "I—I just thought you'd, well, be mad at me," she confessed at last. "But you don't sound very mad."

"We were worried, that's all," Roarke said. "Now that I know where you are, I can breathe easier, and I'll be able to let Tattoo know. If the storm ends before it's too late, I'll drive over to the school and get you. You aren't exactly prepared to spend the night there."

"I guess not," Leslie agreed, smiling foolishly. "Okay, Mr. Roarke, if I see anything, I'll let you know all about it."

"Good girl," said Roarke warmly. "In that case, best of luck, and I'll see you later."

Relieved of a huge burden, Leslie was happy enough to eat with Edna and her students about half an hour later, and soon they were back in Susan and Donna's room, with Heather, Lauralyn, Angie, and two other girls crowded around a Monopoly game board. As the guest of honor, Leslie was appointed the banker—particularly after confessing that she had never played Monopoly and had no idea how—and found herself laughing and having a good time with the others, at least till the storm began to make some earnest noise and they all realized the downstairs floors were quiet otherwise. At that point, the other girls decided to retire to their own rooms, and Susan closed the door after them, helping Donna and Leslie pack up the Monopoly game and put it away.

"Are you staying over?" Susan asked.

"I don't know," said Leslie. "Mr. Roarke said if the storm ends early enough, he'll come and pick me up." She remembered Fielding's words from earlier and eyed the window with trepidation. "Mr. Fielding mentioned this is perfect weather for the ghost to be walking, but I just don't like thunderstorms."

"I used to love them," Susan said through a sigh, falling onto her bed. She patted the space beside her, and Leslie perched there a bit gingerly, as if there on sufferance only. Susan, oblivious to Leslie's unease, went on, "They scare me now. That ghost walks every time the weather gets like this. And besides, I found a rose this morning." She turned to the little table beside her bed and displayed a long-stemmed rose, the color of blood, at Leslie.

Leslie stared at it, blinking as a flash of lightning backlit the flower, and mumbled, "The Gentleman Strangler."

"You know the story?" asked Donna from the other side of the room.

Leslie nodded. "Mr. Roarke knows the history of this place, and he told Mr. Fielding when we first brought him over here." She looked at Susan. "I don't think there's any ghost, but this could be some kind of copycat killer. So it's probably good Mr. Fielding's here."

Susan shuddered as thunder boomed outside. The storm was beginning to move in in earnest, though it hadn't begun to rain as yet. "Well, ghost or not, I'm scared out of my mind."

The girls looked at one another; then they heard the faint clanking of chains and the clomp of footsteps across a carpet, and all stiffened. From downstairs, only slightly more loudly, Fielding's voice could be heard: "Gentleman Strangler, you are dead. Rest in peace!"

An eerie, menacing laugh carried clearly upstairs, followed by Edna's cry, "Stop him!" The clanking and footsteps stopped; there was a lull, then a couple of shrieks.

That was too much for the girls, and all three of them crowded out the door and down the hall. Halfway to the stairs, Susan lost her nerve. "I can't," she said, shaking her head hard. "You two can go. But I don't want to see that killer."

Donna blanched, but Leslie ventured, "I'll go with you. Come on."

They padded down the two flights of stairs to the first floor; their feet on the carpeted steps drew the attention of Fielding and Edna, who both watched as Leslie and Donna paused halfway down to the lobby. "We heard the noise down here, and we came down to see what was going on," Donna explained, hand near her throat, betraying her nervousness.

Before anyone could reply, there was a scream from upstairs and the sound of something breaking. Fielding and Edna instantly ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time; the girls shrank against the railing, letting them pass, then followed them up. Fielding led them back up to the room Donna and Susan shared; the French door, which opened onto the enclosed balcony with the oval opening that Leslie had earlier seen from outside, now stood open, curtains luffing in the breeze. The room itself was empty. "Susan—Susan, where are you?" cried Edna.

"She's gone," Fielding murmured darkly.

He, Edna, Donna and Leslie exchanged wide-eyed glances. From behind, they heard another door open, and Leslie peered over her shoulder as three other girls emerged into the hallway—Heather, Lauralyn, and a plump blonde named Janet. The others followed her gaze; then, without a word, they all left the room, retreating toward the staircase at the sound of organ music, of all things.

The organ Leslie had earlier seen in the sitting room was emitting the music—but no one sat on the bench in front of it. Even from where they stood on a balcony overlooking the lobby, they could see the keys depressing in time with the notes. _Is there such a thing as a player organ, like a player piano?_ Leslie wondered, watching the keys moving as though alive.

Then Fielding said, "It's the ghost of the Gentleman Strangler. He's got Susan."

The girls looked at one another, and Leslie heard them start to whisper. She herself pressed against the balcony railing and peered down into the sitting room, trying to work up the courage to ask the question about the player organ, but in the end not quite able to do so.

Edna sent Heather and Janet up to rouse the remaining girls from bed, and after everyone had gathered in the sitting room—by which time the organ had ceased playing—the storm, which seemed to have paused, had resumed in earnest, though still without rain. Edna was pacing the room, agitated. "She can't have just vanished into thin air," she said tightly. "I intend to search the entire school all over again until we find her." She turned to a dark-haired man, who had been introduced as the fencing instructor, Alan LeBlanc. "In the meantime, Alan, you call the police."

"Very well," Alan replied with a slight bow. "But I think you're foolish to stay here after what happened. Any one of the girls—even you—could be next." He gave Leslie a particular look, then trained his gaze on Edna, letting his words sink in before snapping his fingers. "Ladies?" As if at a signal, the girls all turned and followed him out of the room, back toward the stairs. Only Donna and Leslie remained behind.

"He's right, Edna," Fielding said. "I think you and the girls should leave here as soon as possible. I'll go with you. And you," he added to Leslie, "you need to go back to the main house."

"But what'll happen to your book if you leave now?" Edna protested.

"There are some things more important than getting published," riposted Fielding. "Things like...like staying alive!"

Edna shook her head, annoyed. "Oh, it's only fear talking, Elliott. You _must_ stay, and I intend to stay with you. I'll just make a quick tour of the grounds with the gir—"

When she cut herself off in the middle of the word and froze after two steps, Donna and Leslie leaned forward to peer at her, and Fielding's face took on a quizzical look. Edna's face seemed to lengthen slightly as she lost her pinched, determined look, a stunned expression replacing it. "Elliott..."

"What is it?" prompted Fielding, a bit anxious.

Edna slid her hand into the pocket of her purple cardigan and slowly withdrew a lone, deep-red rose. They all stared at it, and finally Donna spoke: "Miss Camberly—that means you're next!"

Fielding's and Edna's gazes met and held; Leslie bit her lip, and Donna turned to her as if she had heard her do it. "They're right. You shouldn't stay here. You better call Mr. Roarke."

"Right," Fielding said firmly and pointed at the phone. "Go call him now."

"But I..." Leslie began.

"Do it, Leslie," Edna said, gentler but just as insistent. "I don't want to be responsible for your disappearance—it's bad enough I have to figure out what happened to Susan, and if we don't find her, I'll be accountable to her parents. You're safer and better off at home where you belong."

With the verdict unanimous, Leslie plodded to the phone, dialed 001 again and waited through two rings. When she got Roarke on the line, she filled him in on the events, and he agreed to come and get her, since the storm seemed to be holding off for now. When she had hung up, she remained where she stood, gazing across the room at the organ, then visited with an idea. Edna and Fielding had been talking quietly, while Donna hovered nearby peering fretfully around the room; when Leslie strode over to the organ to examine it at closer range, her movement caught their attention and they watched her curiously. It took a minute or two before Edna asked, "What is it, Leslie?"

She had been running her fingers lightly over the keys, but paused now and turned to the headmistress. "Is there such a thing as a player organ? Like there are player pianos?"

Donna simply blinked, while blank surprise filled Edna's face. But Fielding said, "Of course there is. They were very popular in the late nineteenth century, you know. A piece of musical furniture like that was very valuable and very highly prized."

Donna, Edna and Leslie all stared at him in astonishment, and he caught himself and smiled, shrugging. Leslie asked, "Do you play or something?"

"No...I'm practically tone-deaf," Fielding said and grinned in a silly manner, letting his eyeballs roll in Edna's direction. "I've read a lot about it, though."

"Well, is this a player organ?" Leslie asked, patting the edge of the instrument. "Because if it is, that'd explain the so-called ghost playing it without anyone seeing him."

Edna and Donna both shrugged helplessly, and the three females eyed Fielding, now half expecting him to know the response. However, he hesitated, studied the instrument, then shifted his weight and at last muttered, "I don't know for sure." He yanked himself up straight. "But," he added hastily, "I don't think so. Nowadays when you find player organs, and even player pianos, offered for sale, they're always antiques. That one was manufactured too recently for that."

Leslie deflated. _Well, there goes my theory,_ she reflected glumly.

"Nice try, Leslie," Edna offered with a smile. "That was a good idea."

"Yeah," chipped in Donna, "I'd never have thought of that."

Even Fielding smiled. "Can't say it would've occurred to me either," he allowed, and Leslie smiled at that, feeling better. "It might've been wrong, but that was a really good thought."

When Roarke arrived finally, Leslie told him about the organ, and he smiled and patted her shoulder with approval. "Nicely thought out, my child," he praised her. "Perhaps that wasn't the explanation, but no matter—it shows that you've been considering ways to unravel the mystery." He watched her settle into the seat, casting him a shy return smile and murmuring an abashed thank-you. "For now, though, let's leave it for the morning; it's late and we all need some sleep. Well done." With a last smile and a departing wave for Edna, Fielding and Donna, who lingered on the porch, he set off for home.

 _Home,_ Leslie thought, remembering then that Edna had said she was "better off at home where you belong." _Is this home? Do I really belong here? And if I don't, will I ever?_ The thought plagued her all the way back to the main house, to the point that she failed to notice that Roarke didn't try to ask her what was on her mind.

§ § § - March 4, 1979

Breakfast was a quiet affair; Tattoo appeared to have been up late last night, and spent the entire meal yawning. Leslie's first assumption was that he must have been running around trying to proposition assorted twins, but then he confessed that he had gone home with the intention of getting some extra sleep, only to be caught up in a painting he was working on and losing all track of time. It prompted a discussion of the artworks he had created, and a hopeful request from Leslie to see some of them one day, by the time the meal ended.

A little less than an hour later, Roarke invited Leslie to make a few rounds with her; she agreed, mostly because she wasn't sure what to do with herself and was eager for anything that would give her a chance to do more than just sit around. Her mind skated back to his praise from the previous evening, and for the first time she realized he hadn't scolded her for venturing so far from the main house—in fact, he hadn't even mentioned her impromptu little journey. Her father would likely have beaten her to within an inch of her life, Leslie mused, if he had cared in the first place. She kept surreptitiously studying Roarke from the corner of her eye, trying to work up the courage to ask him why he hadn't been angry with her for her disappearing act. But then they heard footsteps not far away and saw someone move past on an intersecting path, and Roarke stepped up his pace, forcing Leslie to take longer strides to keep up.

It was Carol Gates, who looked worried. "Ms. Gates?" Roarke called, halting her.

She smiled a little absently. "Oh, hi," she murmured.

"How is your fantasy going?" he inquired.

Carol made a wistful face. "Well, if you had asked me that yesterday, I would have said 'wonderful'," she admitted.

"Oh," said Roarke with burgeoning concern. "But today...?"

Carol said straight out, "My daughter intends to put her baby up for adoption, and if my son tries out for the Rams, he may be headed for divorce."

Leslie had known about the latter, thanks to Roarke's intuitive observation from the day before; but the former revelation made her gasp softly, then cover her mouth with her hand. "Oh," Roarke said, his expression one of mild consternation. "I'm afraid I just saw to it that Tom got suited up in a Rams uniform. I'm awfully sorry."

Carol let out a sigh. "Then he's going through with it." She shook her head, looking stymied, and turned away, hunching her shoulders for a moment. "Oh, Mr. Roarke...I wish I'd never come here."

"Do you really?" queried Roarke. "You've already spent thirty years with regret, Ms. Gates. Do you want to spend the rest of your life with bitterness and disappointment?"

Carol turned to stare at him and asked, "Do I have a choice?"

"Oh, you do indeed!" Roarke assured her. "You came here because you wanted to be a mother to your two children." With deliberation he suggested, "Maybe it's time you started acting like one."

Carol's expression barely changed. "How?"

"By fighting for the happiness of your children, and..." He paused to give the sentence weight, before concluding, "...the love and respect you want from them."

Carol seemed to think that over; Leslie, hanging almost unnoticed in the background, pondered her guardian's words. _He's been trying with me all weekend,_ she thought guiltily, not even noticing when Carol took her leave and Roarke gazed after her for a moment. _He's really trying to be—well, my guardian, anyway, but more than that, even if not my parent. Maybe I should try a little bit too. I mean...everything might be new and all, but then again, I gotta start making it_ _not_ _new sometime, don't I? I just hope I get another chance before it's too late._

Then Roarke turned to her, scattering her thoughts. "Perhaps you'd like to go to the Rams' practice at your school?" he offered. "I thought at least we might see how Mr. Dearborn performs in his tryout."

Mindful of her brand-new revelation, Leslie nodded. "I actually don't even like football," she confessed with a shrug, "but it's something to do, right?"

Roarke laughed. "It is at that. Let's go, then."

They had been there about half an hour when Carol Gates appeared and joined them beside the rover they had driven to the school. It was another fifteen minutes or so, punctuated with occasional small talk and Carol asking Leslie a few questions about herself, when Tom Dearborn's tryout came up and their attention shifted to him. They watched him perform a field-goal kick, with the ball sailing neatly through the goalposts, to approving murmurs and applause.

Then they heard a car pulling in, and turned around to see Jo Dearborn step out of the passenger seat of a newly arrived rover. Behind them they heard the coach remark, "That's not too bad, Tom. Think you can handle that under game conditions? Under pressure?"

Tom replied, "I guess there's only one way to find out."

The coach called all the players onto the field while Jo looked on anxiously from the sidelines, and Carol, Roarke and Leslie returned their attention to the action. Jo drifted up to join them; Leslie fell back to stand beside Roarke, who alternated between watching the field and keeping an eye on both Carol's and Jo's reactions. They watched the scrimmage line form and crouch; there was a pause, then the football shot out from one player's hands, and another behind them caught it and stood it on end, holding it in place. Two other players burst out from the line, headed straight for Tom even as he was running for the ball. His foot connected with it half a second before they plowed into him and barreled him flat onto his back on the turf. Beside them, Jo made a distressed little moan and turned away in despair, as if to go back to the rover she had come in.

But Carol, looking determined, went right after her. "Turn around and look at him, Jo," she ordered, grasping the younger woman by the upper arms from behind. Roarke and Leslie could just hear her saying it, as though through her teeth. Jo shook her head in anguish, and Carol insisted, "The time to help someone is when they really need it. If you don't do a thing, you might never get another chance." At this Jo turned tentatively to look out onto the field, where they saw the two players ask Tom if he was all right and helped him onto his feet. He seemed fine to Leslie; in fact he even bounced once when he landed upright, looking as if he was raring to go. But when the two players trotted off, Tom hesitated where he stood, rubbing his right knee.

"If you love him, don't blow this," Carol persisted intensely.

Jo turned, peered at Carol who nodded once or twice, and then slipped from her grasp, moving hesitantly toward the bench a few steps. Shading her eyes with her hand, she called hopefully, "Tom?"

The man on the field seemed to pause, turning a bit to stare as if he hadn't realized she was there; Leslie could see the change in Jo's profile that meant she was smiling at him, and she called out to him, "Try it again, okay?"

And that was exactly what he did, nailing a perfect field goal and yelling in triumph. Jo clapped, and Carol beamed, clasping both hands in front of her.

Roarke turned to Leslie. "That's a field goal," he told her.

"Worth three points," she tossed back, making his eyes widen with surprise. She smirked at him and admitted, "I guess some of my dumb dad's constant football-watching must've sunk in." At that he laughed, lightly resting an arm over her shoulders and squeezing the far one for a few seconds. She grinned back at him, her heart lightening for the first time that weekend.

To Carol, Roarke remarked, "I think he'll get his chance at pro football after all." Carol glanced back and nodded, her eyes bright with hope.


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § - March 4, 1979

They spent the better part of the remainder of that day with Carol, helping her to arrange a small birthday party for her twins and even ordering two small cakes. Getting a bit carried away, Carol declared that she intended to put thirty candles on each cake; but Leslie beat Roarke and Tattoo both to the protest, unable to picture anything but a conflagration in her mind's eye. "We might set the bungalow on fire," she said, shaking her head hard to dispel a shudder at the memory of the night just a month before when her own bungalow had caught fire. She knew Carol saw it, but she pushed past it and appealed, "Maybe you could get thirty candles and split them between the cakes. Anyway, there isn't room for that many candles on these little things."

The adults burst into laughter, and Carol cheerfully conceded her point, recruiting Leslie to put fifteen tall white tapers on one of the cakes while she took care of the other. Tattoo, watching, observed, "You look really happy, Ms. Gates."

Carol nodded. "I finally told Tracy my story and who I am—and I think she's accepted me. She...she hugged me and called me her mother. I have to tell you, it was the happiest moment I can remember for a long, long time."

"That's great," Tattoo said, and Leslie smiled, while Roarke beamed.

"That is wonderful indeed," he concurred. Something seemed to occur to him then and he pulled out his gold pocket watch. "It should be time to collect Mr. Fielding from the school," he said to Tattoo, low enough that only Leslie heard him. "Leslie seemed to have a vested interest in that fantasy; perhaps you'd take over placing candles on her cake, while she comes with me?"

"No problem, boss," Tattoo agreed and winked at Leslie. "You've been summoned. I'll help you out, Ms. Gates. The boss and Leslie have an appointment."

In a little under half an hour they had pulled up in front of the mansion housing the Camberly School for Girls; the sky was almost dark, with blue showing in the west, shading to a rose-tinged gold just behind the trees. Floodlights at either end of the porch illuminated their way to the front door, and after Roarke knocked, Edna let them in, greeting them with a broad grin. "Welcome back!"

"Did you find out what was going on?" Leslie asked eagerly.

Donna and Susan appeared from the sitting room and both beamed. "We sure did!" Donna said. "The ghost was Mr. LeBlanc all along."

"The fencing teacher?" Leslie exclaimed in amazement.

"Alan LeBlanc," said Edna, nodding. "He ambushed me while Donna and I were talking, and just swept me off right in front of her. She must have alerted Elliott, and he came looking for us. Alan had an underground room in the cemetery where he was holding Susan in a cage, and he put me there too." She looked around as Fielding appeared in the lobby, carrying a film projector. "I don't know how Elliott ever found us, but he did, and he beat Alan in a fencing match."

"Even though he said he'd never fenced before," put in Susan excitedly. "He said he had read all about it. I didn't think that would mean anything, but boy, he must've _really_ read about it."

They all laughed. "So it wasn't really a ghost after all," Leslie said with satisfaction, folding her arms over her chest. "I knew it. He was using that to pretend he was a ghost, right?" She pointed at the film projector.

"Sure was," Fielding said and peered at a now-somewhat-bemused Roarke. "Y'know, Mr. Roarke, you've got one smart kid here. Quite a character, she is."

Roarke chuckled. "You can certainly say that again," he observed and winked at Leslie. "At any rate, Mr. Fielding, it's time for you to come back to the resort; your fantasy is over."

They found themselves the slightly reluctant witnesses to a longing, lingering look between Fielding and Edna, while Susan and Donna leered at each other and snickered delightedly behind their hands. Leslie blushed and tried to look away, her eyes roaming all over the lobby before Fielding at last gave in to Roarke's urging and accompanied him and Leslie to the rover.

They were just in time to meet Tattoo and Carol in front of the bungalow where Tom and his family were staying along with Tracy. "I've got them all here," Carol informed them, "and I think they might be getting a little impatient. Let's surprise them."

Which they did, wheeling the two cakes in from the bungalow's little porch where they had been waiting, lit candles and all. Jo and Jamie, Tom's wife and son, joined in as they sang "Happy Birthday" for Tom and Tracy; laughing, they clapped, and then Roarke cleared his throat slightly. "And now it is time for something Ms. Carol Gates has been waiting to say for thirty years."

Leslie watched the twins; Tom looked puzzled, while Tracy seemed wistful and even a little sad. "Ms. Gates?" Roarke prompted quietly.

Carol nodded, turned to Tom and Tracy and drew in a breath or two, her face filled with hope. "Tom, Tracy...happy birthday, children."

Tracy's eyes began to gleam with tears, and Tom's face lit with instant understanding and wonder in the two seconds before he stepped forward and wrapped Carol in a hug. When he drew back, he murmured, "Thank you...Mom."

Roarke smiled a little, turned to take in Tattoo's and Leslie's reactions. Tattoo nodded and smiled back; Leslie's eyes, like Tracy's, swam in tears, and once more Roarke put an arm around her shoulders. This time, when he drew her in against him, she went without hesitation, squeezing back the moisture and managing a smile for their guests as they exchanged hugs.

Everyone's stories came out over cake—Carol's; Tom's and Tracy's childhood with the older couple who had adopted them and were now deceased; and Leslie's as well. Jo told the story of how she and Tom had met in college; and young Jamie, not to be outdone, related a couple of silly stories about antics committed by his first-grade classmates, bringing on laughter.

It was past nine before Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo left; they dropped off Tattoo at his cottage before returning to the main house and preparing to close down for the night. "It was quite a little party, wasn't it?" Roarke commented jovially, following Leslie up the stairs.

"Yeah, and I'm glad it had such a happy ending," Leslie agreed. "Um...Mr. Roarke..."

He paused in the hallway at the top of the steps. "Yes, Leslie?"

She shoved her hands into her pockets again and peered up at him through her bangs. "Is it too late to talk a little bit? I mean..." She had to swallow before she could go on. "You asked me about Kristy and Kelly yesterday, and, well..."

Roarke smiled, laid a hand on her shoulder, and gestured with the other hand toward her room. "I'm sure we can spare a little time. Come in and let's talk for a while."

§ § § - March 5, 1979

They waved off a very happy Carol Gates, whose son doubled back long enough to grab her arm and tow her along with him to the hatch, both laughing. Leslie herself was feeling pretty happy this morning as well, after reminiscing about her sisters with Roarke the night before. It still gave her a jolt of hopeful wonder, remembering how receptive he had been to her, listening with interest to what she said, encouraging her to pour out what she was feeling. She still hadn't dared cry in front of him; she didn't know what kind of reaction he might have, not yet. _But I think it's gonna be okay after all, living with him. I'll get used to him, just like Tom and Tracy'll get used to their mother._

A rover drew to a halt in front of them, and Elliott Fielding and Edna Camberly got out. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke and Tattoo...and you too, Leslie," Fielding said, shaking hands with all three of them. He took them all in at once and beamed. "Well, Edna and I are going to be married, and become the first ghost-busting team in the world."

Leslie gaped at them in disbelief, while Roarke brightened and exclaimed, "Oh, I am very happy for both of you."

"What about the school?" Leslie broke in. "Are you closing it after all?"

Edna smiled. "Well, I thought maybe it was for the best. If Elliott and I are going to be a team, I won't have time to run the school. I've put it up for sale—and it definitely is _not_ going to be sold to Alan LeBlanc, not after what he did in the attempt to take it over for himself." She smiled. "Who knows, maybe it'll still be a school, under another name. Or it could be a perfect private residence for somebody who needs a lot of peace and quiet, in a very special setting." Something changed in her expression and she retrieved a note from her purse. "Donna and Susan asked me to give you this. They're both headed for home—all the girls are now, actually. Their parents had already decided to withdraw them from the school, so that kind of made my decision to close it easier."

"We'll miss you here," Tattoo said, glancing at Leslie as she unfolded the note and read the short farewell from Susan and Donna. "But we wish you lots of luck."

Roarke nodded agreement. "And Mr. Fielding, may I say that you certainly demonstrated an uncanny ability at handling very difficult circumstances, whether they be ghostly or tangible."

"Well, I can't take all the credit, Mr. Roarke," Fielding informed him in a less-than-successful attempt at modesty. "Old Jacoby, the gardener, told me where to find the cave." Tattoo's face took on a bewildered look, and Leslie saw him mouth the word _Jacoby_ as Fielding concluded, "I never could've done it without him."

She looked up at Roarke, who looked equally confused. "Old Jacoby? The gardener?"

Surprised, Fielding said, "Yes, why?"

Roarke swiftly recovered himself and blurted hastily, "Oh, nothing, nothing...very helpful man." Tattoo stared dubiously at him, and Leslie shifted her weight with eroding patience, dying to ask what the story was here. "Well, enjoy your trip back."

They all shook hands, exchanged thank-yous and farewells, and waved at one another while Tattoo kept gaping at Roarke. Finally Roarke noticed, gesturing at both him and Leslie to wave back, which they did with feigned enthusiasm. But the moment they were gone, Tattoo spoke up: "Boss."

"Hm?" murmured Roarke, still gazing after their departed guests.

"Something I don't understand," Tattoo said. "I never met old Jacoby."

Surprised, Leslie put in, "You didn't?" Tattoo glanced at her and shook his head.

"That's understandable," Roarke said with an ironic little smile. "Old Jacoby has been dead more than twenty years."

Tattoo's mouth dropped open, and Leslie shot her guardian a thoroughly skeptical look. "No way," she insisted. "There is _just...no...way!"_

Roarke simply smiled mysteriously at her and spared Tattoo one amused glance before watching the plane begin to taxi away from the dock. Leslie gave him the stink-eye for another few seconds, then gave up and made a face. _Boy,_ _mormor_ _,_ she thought, _when you talked to me about this island, you didn't know the half of it. This is gonna be some wild place to live!_ And in spite of herself, she grinned with anticipation.

§ § § - April 6, 2012

"Is that house still there, Mom?" Susanna asked when her mother and grandfather sat back and there had been a slight pause.

"Should be, why?" Leslie inquired.

"Maybe we could move into it if nobody's there now. Then me and Karina could have our own rooms."

Christian released a quiet groan while Leslie riposted, _"Karina and I,_ not _me and Karina._ And think about what you're saying. Your best friend lives right across the street, and that house isn't in the Enclave where we are. You really sure you want to live in a place that isolated? It's another couple of miles down the Ring Road from here, past the Old Swamp Road shortcut."

"So there aren't any other houses near it?" Susanna asked in surprise. "You said it was a school, so I thought maybe it was near other places."

"I guess I'll have to show you sometime," Leslie said. "I don't know what kind of condition the mansion's in anyway. This much I can tell you, though—you might have your own room, but you couldn't just run across the street to play with April."

"Then we could move the house onto this street," Susanna persisted, nothing daunted. "Grandfather could do it, right, Grandfather? I mean, your clan can do stuff like that. What're they called again? Manner mapulaters, or something?"

The adults all laughed. "Matter manipulators, child," Roarke said. "Perhaps it would be possible to do so, but sometimes it's more important to leave things just as they are." He noticed Susanna's bewildered look. "It's seldom wise to do something simply because you can. If you do, it could cause far more harm than good, even if you don't see the harm immediately."

Susanna sighed. "Well, I was just kinda hoping. I know me and...I mean, Karina and I have the biggest bedroom except for Mom and Daddy, but it still gets crowded."

"Yeah, especially when I just want to read or something by myself for a while," Karina chimed in. "We don't have our own place to just be by ourselves."

"Is this an ongoing thing?" Roald asked curiously.

"It comes up regularly," Christian admitted through a sigh. "The whole subject is getting old now, but the fact that they have their own suites in the castle has simply added fuel to the campaign. I never expected when I designed this house that we would have four children; I can't truly think of any other way to expand the place so that Karina and Susanna could have their own rooms, and the one they share now isn't large enough to divide into two."

"I still want the big room downstairs," Susanna announced.

"Well, you can't have it," Karina shot out, instantly incensed. "It's for visitors!"

With her parents in the room, Susanna appealed to them. "Is that really right? Do we have to save that room for people who sleep over?"

"That's the reason we put it there," Christian told her. "Sometimes, when most of the family visits from Lilla Jordsö, we can spare bungalows if it isn't a busy time of year, or they can take hotel rooms. But if it's merely one or two—such as, perhaps, Uncle Carl Johan and Aunt Amalia, or one of your cousins—it's easier to let them stay here with us. And in any case, think about it. Even if we were to let one of you have that room, how do we decide who gets it?"

"Me," Susanna informed him. "I'm the oldest, and 'sides, I asked first."

"Not fair," shrilled Karina.

 _"Way_ not fair," Tobias chimed in. "I'm the only boy, so if anyone was gonna move to that room, it oughta be me."

Leslie put both hands in the air as Roald and Roarke both began laughing and Christian shook his head in weary defeat. "That's enough. We're not actually going to give one of you the guest suite, so you can stop arguing about it. You're just going to have to accept the situation as it is, I'm sorry." She eyed the triplets, particularly Susanna, with meaning for a moment, then let herself relax when they remained silent, though sullen in Susanna's case. "So what else were you curious about?"

"The clans," Christian said suddenly, surprising them into looking at him. "I suspect no other clan members have ever been to this island as fantasizing guests, or at least none that you've ever mentioned, Mr. Roarke. Unless you're holding out on us?"

Roarke laughed. "The closest we had ever come was Delphine, when she had her wedding here on the island and wanted to rid herself of the family 'gift'. But you're well aware, I know, that there have been many who have wished for the life-restoration gift of the Kullenäs clan, the very one you yourself have been so ambivalent about possessing. You're familiar with the Frankenstein story, as perhaps the most famous example." Christian nodded. "And we did have one fantasy that you may identify very heavily with; I know Leslie did. It was quite an emotional weekend for her."

§ § § - March 21, 1981

The plane-dock band had grown this tourist season, Leslie had noticed: four musicians with bigger instruments; four hula dancers; and two more girls who seemed only to stand by and watch while the rest did their thing. By the time she had thought to ask Roarke what they were supposed to be doing other than just standing around, she'd seen him put them to work as guides to show the guests where their bungalows were, how to find things like the restaurants, the pool and the casino, and how to get to the main house from their bungalows. With the dock from the charter plane's hatch already thickly lined with young women toting leis and refreshments, the best place Roarke had found for the two guides to stand out of the way was with the band, flanking the musicians in the background while the dancers commanded attention.

Now, with the music filling the air, she, Roarke and Tattoo shifted their attention to the charter hatch, from which emerged a tall, dark, debonair-looking mustachioed man in a formal gray business suit, even down to the vest under the jacket. "Mr. Frank Miller," Roarke introduced him, "a Wall Street securities analyst, employed by a very large and prestigious investment concern."

"Sounds very important," remarked Tattoo.

"Oh, indeed," Roarke agreed. "In one eight-hour day, Mr. Miller may advise his company's clients on the investment of hundreds of millions of dollars."

"What power," said Tattoo, impressed.

"Scary stuff, if you ask me," said Leslie, making a face. "I'd be terrified of making a mistake, even a little one."

Roarke smiled at that. "True, it's not for everyone—and unfortunately, the wealth he handles, the fortunes he makes, belong to other people. Oh, Mr. Miller is very honest, hardworking and dedicated; but he is paid only a modest salary."

"So his fantasy is to rip off his company," Tattoo guessed eagerly, as if he wanted in on the scheme.

Leslie couldn't help it and released a guffaw; Roarke rolled his eyes and cast her a look that only partially damped down her amusement. "Mr. Miller's fantasy is to get rid of his frustrations...by spending money like a billionaire. So, with its inherent liabilities, we will grant his fantasy."

"Right up your alley, Tattoo," Leslie teased the Frenchman.

But Tattoo seemed a little dubious, if wistful. "Can we do that, boss?"

"Uh, yes...but not without risk, Tattoo. I'm afraid this weekend may turn out to be the most dangerous investment Mr. Miller has ever made." Tattoo looked thoughtful at this pronouncement, but to Leslie's mild surprise, he left it at that, without expressing the hope that he could get in on Miller's fantasy. Instead, he gave his attention to the next guests emerging from the charter: an older business-suited man whose graying hair bore touches of white, and a woman in a deep-lavender-colored sundress, with frizzy honey-colored curls and a happy, hopeful look about her. "Dr. Lucas Bergman and his daughter, Lisa, from Boston, Massachusetts." He caught Leslie's eye, and she raised her eyebrows, impressed.

"Which one has the fantasy?" she asked.

"Both, my child," Roarke said, looking grave with concern.

"Both?" repeated Tattoo.

Roarke nodded. "But neither knows about the other."

"This is gonna be tricky," mused Tattoo, then frowned slightly with curiosity. "Uh, what kind of doctor is he?"

"Dr. Bergman _was_ a heart surgeon," replied Roarke, puzzling Leslie with the emphasis, "one of the most brilliant, until he was permanently banned from every hospital in the country."

Now Leslie frowned too. "Banned? What'd he do that was so terrible?"

"It concerned his research, Leslie. Following his wife's death a year ago, the doctor began a series of unorthodox experiments on the recently deceased." He eyed both Tattoo and Leslie with a meaningful look; she stared back for a second, then extrapolated, and let her gaze drift away as she absorbed the implications.

Tattoo didn't look any more sanguine. "Dead body?" he muttered. "Boss, something tells me I shouldn't even ask. What's his fantasy?" This came out almost eagerly, in direct contrast to the immediately preceding statement; the contrast was enough to make Leslie grin in spite of herself.

Roarke's mouth acquired a wry little twist. The one word came out laden with foreboding. "Resurrection."

Tattoo and Leslie, both stunned, looked at each other, then gaped at Roarke, who elaborated, "Sometime during this weekend, the good doctor intends to bring the dead back to life."

Tattoo slid a nervous glance around. "Dead? Here on the island?"

"Do you think he can actually do it?" Leslie ventured.

True to form, Roarke simply maintained that wry little half-smile, and let the silence stretch before one of the native women brought him a glass and he toasted their guests in the weekly greeting that never varied. Leslie couldn't get her mind off the Bergman fantasy; in fact, she found herself hoping that, somehow, the doctor from Boston would be the one who succeeded where all others before him had failed.


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § - March 21, 1981

Leslie soon discovered that, at least in the eyes of Dr. Lucas Bergman, time was of the essence; he was in no mood for pleasantries or small talk, and insisted on getting started on his fantasy then and there, as if any delay would mean a drastic change in the outcome of what he hoped to achieve. A couple of natives loaded up a rover with a large metal case; then she, Tattoo and Roarke drove Dr. Bergman and his daughter Lisa to a small, isolated village located toward the western end of the island, near the jungle interior. The settlement could be reached only by a rutted, one-lane dirt road, and Roarke drove slowly, taking care with the pits and ridges caused by weather, as well as the occasional petrified tracks of tires that had passed through here long before. Though everyone on the island knew Roarke to some degree, that didn't keep the residents of the pitiful collection of thatched-roof grass huts from scrutinizing the rover with open suspicion as Roarke let the car coast along the lane before pulling to a stop at what appeared to be a dead end.

They all got out of the car, and Lisa Bergman and Leslie rounded it from the other side to join the men as Dr. Bergman gazed at the lone two-story structure in the place. It had a rudimentary thatch-roofed porch, and had been whitewashed so that it stood out in stark contrast to the khaki-colored shacks surrounding it. Dr. Bergman apparently recognized it. "Oh," he said, looking impressed, "this was home to Henry Vanderwick...the father of regenerative transplant surgery." Leslie noticed that Lisa's hopeful, curious expression slid away, replaced by disappointment and disillusionment.

"Yes," Roarke confirmed. "The building has been vacant since his death, looked after by..." His glance slid to Bergman before he said somewhat evasively, "...a caretaker." His smile, to Leslie's knowing eye, seemed to hint at a secret joke. "Tattoo will show you around."

"This way, Dr. Bergman," Tattoo said, gesturing toward the building.

Dr. Bergman turned to Lisa. "You coming?"

"In a minute, Father," Lisa said, and he eyed her for a second or two before the lure of the house proved too much for him and he followed Tattoo to the door.

Lisa waited till they were well out of earshot and the baaing of goats somewhere nearby was the only sound; then she turned to Roarke. "Mr. Roarke, I want to thank you for my fantasy," she said. Her face shone with hope. "This chance to spend some time with my father...this is the first time I've been able to drag him away from his work since my mother died."

"I understand she was lovely," said Roarke with a faint smile of his own.

Leslie tuned in as Lisa nodded and said, "Oh, yes, she was—would you like to see? You too, Leslie." Lisa's smile was friendly and inviting, and Leslie couldn't resist, leaning over to get a look when Lisa opened the large gold locket around her neck and displayed the photo within. It was a black-and-white shot, fifties-vintage, of a beaming young brunette whose hair was being blown back in the breeze. She seemed to be wearing an off-the-shoulder gown, perhaps a wedding dress, Leslie surmised.

"Oh...very lovely indeed," Roarke concurred with appreciation. As Lisa gazed at the picture, he then said deliberately, "She died in surgery, and the surgeon was your father."

Lisa's head came up sharply, and she demanded, "How did you know that?"

"It's my business to know such things, Miss Bergman," said Roarke briskly, his voice disapproving. "Forgive me, but is it not a fact that practicing surgery on a member of one's own family is contrary to medical ethics?"

Lisa's voice chilled. "Well, under ordinary circumstances, yes. But we were sailing in the Caribbean, and we were hours from any hospital. My mother became terribly ill, and my father _had_ to operate." Now her tone grew urgent, as if she were trying to make Roarke understand. "It was a simple appendectomy, but complications arose, and she, uh..." She trailed off with remembered sadness, and Leslie's heart went out to her as she registered the growing sorrow on Lisa's face. Roarke nodded with sympathetic comprehension and glanced at Leslie, sparing a few seconds to give her a pat or two on the shoulder. Lisa turned to stare at the building where her father and Tattoo had gone. "My father's never been the same since."

"Yes," Roarke mused, almost turning inward while Leslie watched her guardian with that sense of wonder at the way he seemed to know so much he hadn't been told. "He has immersed himself in his work—become totally absorbed in his research project."

"That's why I brought him here, Mr. Roarke—to get him away from all that darkness and guilt, and to have my fantasy. To get back to a normal father-and-daughter relationship."

Leslie squinted at Lisa, wondering what such a thing might entail, and whether she might have a chance to chat a little with Lisa. There had been no time for any small talk, even during the drive to the settlement; for Dr. Bergman had been too impatient to tolerate chatter, and nobody else seemed willing to challenge that—certainly not Leslie.

Then the door opened and Dr. Bergman leaned halfway out. "Mr. Roarke? May I see you for a moment?"

Leslie thought his voice sounded sharp, and she looked to her guardian, who nodded once, then repeated the gesture to Lisa. Lisa promptly went to join her father, and Roarke turned to the half-dozen or so young native men who had clustered around the back of the rover, giving them a silent signal. They stepped forward and began to unload the equipment in the back of the vehicle, and Roarke guided Leslie along to the house in Lisa's wake.

Inside, Tattoo stood waiting. Roarke turned to him and requested, "Will you show Miss Bergman to her room? She must be tired after her long journey."

"Of course. This way, Miss Bergman." Lisa cast a grateful smile back at Roarke and followed Tattoo out of the room and toward a narrow, steep staircase.

"Mr. Roarke, I have to talk to you," Dr. Bergman said then, his voice sharp and urgent.

"Certainly, Dr. Bergman," replied Roarke, with his usual effortless courtesy. "About the nature of the experiments you intend to conduct here, to try to bring the dead back to life?"

"Exactly," said the doctor, meeting Roarke's penetrating gaze with an intense stare of his own.

Roarke nodded slowly once or twice; then he gave one final, brisker nod and said firmly, "I suggest you and your daughter rest for a short while, perhaps sit together and talk a bit or have a look around the grounds here. I have another client to see to."

Dr. Bergman looked affronted, as if he'd thought he should have been the sole focus of Roarke's attention for as long as he pleased. "I happen to be in a great hurry here, Mr. Roarke—"

Roarke overrode him firmly. "My time is also valuable, Dr. Bergman, and you are not my only guest this weekend. You have my word that I will return within two hours to answer any questions you may have and to satisfy whatever curiosity may arise for you while I am gone. But I do have another client awaiting me, and I believe you and your daughter could benefit from a short rest before I return." He paused to let this sink in, and seemed to be waiting for Dr. Bergman's response. However, the doctor said nothing, looking a little startled, as if he had never before come up against someone who stood up to him with such easy finesse. When the silence stretched, Roarke nodded and even smiled slightly. "Very well, if you have no further questions at this time...then please, excuse us. Leslie?" He turned toward the stairs and raised his voice. "Tattoo, we're leaving now."

In a few seconds Tattoo emerged from the stairwell and joined Roarke and Leslie. On the way back to the main house, Tattoo queried, "Boss, do you think Dr. Bergman sees himself as some kind of...you know, Frankenstein sort?"

Roarke contemplated the question for about twenty seconds; then he said, "No, Tattoo, I don't believe so. It seems to me that Dr. Bergman either is unaware of, or refuses to make, the comparisons between himself and Mary Shelley's character." He paused, then sighed softly. "No, Dr. Bergman may not see himself as a latter-day Frankenstein...but the villagers around him certainly will."

That gave both Tattoo and Leslie food for thought, and they were silent for most of the remaining drive back, before Tattoo's mind shifted to something else altogether. Roarke and Leslie could see the change in expression that indicated he had another issue on his mind, but neither of them had a chance to comment when Roarke parked the rover in front of the main house and Tattoo jumped right out, heading for the porch steps. About to follow, Roarke was hailed by a couple of natives in the lane who had a question or two for him. Leslie hesitated, divided on whether to stay put or chase down Tattoo in an attempt to prevent something embarrassing; but before she could decide, the natives thanked Roarke and continued on their way.

They had just entered the inner-foyer door when they heard Tattoo's voice from inside the study: "I've got a few dollars to invest." They could see just over the half-wall right beside the door, and noticed that Tattoo had perched in the chair behind Roarke's desk with an air of overdone self-importance, facing Frank Miller, who sat with his back to them in one of the club chairs. "What do you think about, um...pork bellies?" Leslie stifled a snicker with one hand.

Miller leaned forward just slightly and repeated, "Pork bellies?" He sounded as incredulous as Roarke looked, and went on, "No, stay out, Tattoo—that market is strictly for the professionals."

Roarke, too, killed a smile before stepping forward. "Tattoo..." The Frenchman looked up, startled, and jumped out of the chair, scrambling around the desk and joining Roarke as he took a seat in the other club chair. Leslie followed him in, hanging just behind the chair near the steps to the second floor, while Roarke inquired, "How much money are you prepared to invest through Mr. Miller?"

"Before or after I get paid?" countered Tattoo.

Roarke shot his assistant a look that finally squelched the Frenchman once and for all on the subject. Leslie grinned, watching Roarke chuckle dryly and then turn back to their guest. "Mr. Miller, have you ever met Mr. Avery Williams?"

Tattoo added mostly for Leslie's benefit, "The world's number-one financier?"

Miller looked a touch surprised, but spoke calmly. "No, no...I never get to meet the firm's clients, only their money." Roarke nodded understanding. "But thanks to the reams of material that you sent me, I feel I know Avery Williams like a, like a book. His family, his likes and dislikes, his personal mannerisms...even the way he plays golf. He has a wife...I mean, we may..." He let the sentence go unfinished, making Leslie wonder what he was implying.

Roarke responded as if he knew what Miller had left unsaid. "There is that possibility."

"Now does he still want to trade places?" Miller asked.

"Oh, desperately. Mr. Williams hasn't had a day off in several years, and is eagerly looking forward to a weekend vacation, now that we have found a suitable substitute for him. But, uh, Mr. Miller, I must warn you: men of great wealth and power inevitably acquire enemies." Miller looked thoughtful at this, but continued to listen as Roarke went on, "When you take Mr. Williams' place, you could be placing your own life in mortal danger."

Miller pondered it for all of two seconds before musing, "Well, my life has been pretty dull anyway, Mr. Roarke; I think I could, uh...I could use a little excitement." He was calm and even wore a slight smile, but it was clear to them all that he fully intended to go through with his fantasy.

Roarke chuckled again, briefly. "I see. Well, in that case...Tattoo?"

Tattoo pulled himself straight. "This way, Mr. Miller," he said, gesturing at the foyer, and Miller and Roarke both arose, going to the steps leading there. Leslie let them slip past, earning a quick nod and smile from Miller which she returned.

Tattoo opened the door but paused there, eyeing Miller, who stopped and regarded him quizzically. "What do you think about soybeans?" Tattoo asked.

Miller just loosed a small, dismissive chuckle and let himself out; Roarke followed and closed the door after him, shooting Tattoo a look of mild exasperation as he did so. Tattoo turned away from the door and snapped his fingers in disappointment, and Leslie let her laughter break forth.

"Seriously!" she blurted, giggling. "What the heck have you got to invest?"

Tattoo looked affronted. "I've sold some of my paintings to some guests," he informed her haughtily, striding back to Roarke's desk. "I have a little money in the bank. I know you and the boss don't take me seriously, but I could get really rich from some prudent investments, you know."

"Well, Mr. Miller didn't take you very seriously either," Leslie reminded him, and he rolled his eyes. "The stock market's only for rich people, and I know you're not one of them, because you're always complaining about money, and your favorite fantasy is to be rich. If you really _were_ rich, you wouldn't have either the complaints or the fantasy. I mean, I bet even Mr. Miller himself doesn't invest his own money in the markets."

Tattoo eyed her with suspicion. "You sure seem to know a lot for somebody who's not even sixteen yet. Where do you get all your information?"

"I read more than you think I do. Besides, I know Mr. Roarke's done a little investing here and there, but he's always careful about it, and he doesn't make a career of it."

"Hmph," Tattoo scoffed. "Well, he's not as rich as Avery Williams." He noticed Leslie gearing up to argue. "You know how I know? Because even if the boss owns this whole island, and even if Mr. Williams has a mansion in the Enclave, you oughta know something—that mansion is Mr. Williams' winter cottage." He took in Leslie's dropped-jaw gape, nodded and smirked in self-satisfaction. "That's right, winter cottage. He has estates in California and New York that are both twice the size of the one he has here." Tattoo's expression grew dreamy. "Boy, what a lifestyle that must be. All the money you could ever want, and more even."

"And all the enemies you could ever want," Leslie added, recalling Roarke's caveat to Miller. "So that's something else for you to think about. I gotta go to the bathroom." She made her escape upstairs, privately more than a little surprised that Tattoo hadn't begged Roarke to find some way to let him horn in on Frank Miller's fantasy.

About forty-five minutes later Roarke came back long enough to pick up Leslie and return to the isolated village where the Bergmans were staying. Lisa was nowhere to be seen; but Dr. Bergman was waiting for them, and he glared expectantly at Roarke as he and Leslie alighted from the rover and approached the porch where Bergman waited, leaning on his cane. "Good, you're back."

Roarke simply nodded to him before they all ventured inside. Leslie kept quiet, cowed by Bergman's abrupt attitude and glad it was Roarke who was the focus of the doctor's attention. Bergman asked a couple of questions; then he seemed to have a thought and focused sharply on Roarke. "It just occurred to me that this laboratory was built years ago. I should've shipped out some up-to-date equipment."

Roarke caught up with Bergman as the doctor crossed the room, and said with a gesture, "Doctor, have a look in there."

Leslie followed Roarke's move and noticed a pair of closed doors with shutter slats in them; she and her guardian looked on as Dr. Bergman passed the various white-sheet-covered items scattered around the exam room and pushed open the doors. Beyond them lay what appeared to be a large operating room, the size of which had been thoroughly belied by the cramped appearance of the house from outside. There were an operating table, IV poles and bags, surgical equipment of every stripe, and even a computer unit on the right-hand wall, already awaiting input and blinking with lights. For a minute Bergman was speechless with astonishment; then he exclaimed, "This is magnificent! That unit—" he went to the computer bank— "looks like mine." He squinted more closely at it. "It _is_ mine. These units are from my own laboratory." Roarke had followed him in and was nodding, with a little smile that looked to Leslie to be self-satisfied and less than modest. Bergman stopped in front of Roarke and asked in wonder, "Is it possible?"

All Roarke said was, "This is Fantasy Island, doctor. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"There is one thing. My daughter doesn't know about my fantasy, the experiments I've planned."

"Oh," murmured Roarke with a nod of comprehension. "Perhaps that is just as well."

"This trip wouldn't be necessary if I had the freedom to do my research back home. But the medical authorities...reporters..." Bergman's voice began to rise with remembered outrage and anger. "They made that impossible!"

"You will find no such interference here on Fantasy Island, doctor," Roarke assured him. "But I should warn you...some of the natives in this area tend to be somewhat, um...superstitious."

Bergman didn't appear concerned. "No problem. I'll keep out of their way."

Roarke regarded him for a few seconds, smiled as if he knew better, then grew brisk. "Well, I trust now that you have everything you need."

"Everything," Bergman began, "except—"

"Except the final element," Roarke finished for him, "the human form." There was something ominous in his tone, quiet though it was. "Don't worry: it will arrive later today."

Bergman nodded. "I will await delivery. Anxiously."

Roarke nodded, then gestured at Leslie, uncharacteristically failing to excuse himself. She followed him out the door and pulled it shut after them while Roarke paused on the porch and regarded the huddled grouping of ramshackle hovels on both sides of the dirt lane. "Mr. Roarke, can I ask you something?" she began, pausing beside him and peering at him with trepidation.

"Of course," said Roarke, turning to her.

She cleared her throat. "Um...where are you going to get the body? I mean...is it going to be his wife, maybe?"

For a protracted moment Roarke studied her, then smiled with a touch of sympathetic understanding. "I am afraid that wasn't possible, Leslie. That would have required exhumation, and like anywhere else, Massachusetts has laws regarding that, which even I can't circumvent. The red tape would have dragged out the preparations for this fantasy to the point of impossibility." He let his gaze drift out across the lane again. "No, I had to make other arrangements, I'm afraid."

Something in his voice convinced Leslie she didn't want to know any more, and she merely nodded, hunching her shoulders. "I never really got to talk to Lisa."

Again Roarke turned to her, smiled, and slipped his arm around her shoulders. "I know why you hoped to speak to her, but sometimes things simply work out differently. The Bergmans are both very focused people." He leaned toward her slightly, as if in confidence. "Do you feel the need to talk?"

She peered sideways up at him. "Hm, maybe. I guess it's the fantasy. I mean...Dr. Bergman wants to bring life back to the dead. If he manages to do it, I wonder if...if he could, well, find a way to, um..." She noticed the gentle amusement creeping into his expression, and shook her head. "Oh, never mind that. I guess it's really stupid anyway. Maybe we better go."

Roarke let her half-run to the car, but decided he might try to draw her out further later on. For now he had to handle one more errand, and called Leslie from the car where she had just slid into the front passenger seat. Startled, she fell in at his side. "Now what?"

"I need to speak to someone who can help Dr. Bergman," Roarke told her. "I believe I know just the person who will be suitable—" He paused then as a portly older native man approached him from a hut a little way up the lane. "What can I do for you?"

"Someone was swimming in the lagoon," the man informed Roarke, sounding to Leslie as if he were reciting business figures for the last financial quarter. "She was all by herself down there. I don't know if they were able to get her out alive, but they're bringing her back up here." He paused, gave Leslie a dismissive look, then said, "By the way, I've got issues to bring up at the next island council meeting. I've had some complaints about you bringing that doctor out here, conducting his...voodoo in that cursed old house. You know this is my district, Mr. Roarke, and if you don't do something about that doctor in there, you can bet we will—and I'll be leading the charge."

Roarke had folded his arms over his chest by this time and was eyeing the man—a longtime council member who had turned out to be the most disagreeable voice in the group—with carefully leashed impatience. "Is that all?" he asked coldly.

The council member seemed to be brought up short by Roarke's attitude, and glared at him, unable to come up with a reply. Finally he muttered, "For now."

"Good," said Roarke crisply. "Then please bring Makalo to me, if you will."

His expectant mien and his unmoved attitude drove the man to grumble something in conciliation and pivot around on one foot, stalking away from them with his dissatisfaction and anger swirling through the air like a smoky miasma. Leslie made a quiet gagging noise. "Ugh, him again. I wish he'd mind his own business and stay off the council. You said all he ever does is complain."

Roarke glanced at her and grinned. "He's an annoyance, yes, but not enough of one to go to the trouble of holding an off-year election. Besides, I can't dismiss him just for being a thorn in my side, as much as I can see you wish I could." He chuckled at her sigh. "Makalo should be here shortly, at any rate, and we will see that Dr. Bergman's delivery is made in full."

Within five minutes a tall, thin, bald man with a scarred throat, with kind dark eyes in his milk-chocolate-hued face, arrived, greeting Roarke with a smile and a slight bow but no comment. Roarke smiled back, shook hands and introduced Leslie, then explained to Makalo in a few words why he was needed. Makalo simply nodded and accompanied them back to the laboratory, where they found Dr. Bergman working alone in the operating room. Roarke motioned to Makalo to remain outside the room for the moment, and took Leslie in with him, pausing beside Bergman's chair. The doctor was so engrossed in the notes he was making that he didn't hear their approach; but he must have sensed something, for he turned around in his chair and blinked at sight of Roarke and Leslie.

Startled, he dropped his pen and stared up at Roarke, who smiled. "Dr. Bergman, I have brought you an assistant. He has been looking after the place and will work with you during your stay here. Allow me to present Makalo." As he spoke the last sentence, Makalo entered, his features solemn.

Bergman arose, taken aback, and glanced at Roarke, then offered a hand. "Hello, Makalo."

Makalo shook, then silently mouthed, _Hello, doctor._ Bergman eyed Roarke as if he thought the latter man's judgment was off. "He can't speak?"

Roarke hesitated slightly, then explained, "Well, as you can see, he suffered an injury, and, uh..." He made a quick gesture across his throat, letting the sentence lie unfinished. "But he can hear perfectly well, and I can assure you, after many years working with Dr. Vandervick, he's very competent. In fact, in preparation for your arrival, Makalo studied transcripts of every experiment you have conducted in recent months."

"Well, I'm impressed with your thoroughness and your thoughtfulness, Mr. Roarke," Bergman allowed, though his voice was less than warm. Leslie tried not to shudder; the chill of this man's overly businesslike demeanor seemed to roll off him and permeate the entire room.

Roarke nodded to him, then said, "Thank you, Makalo, that will be all for now." In reply Makalo mouthed, _You're welcome,_ then turned and left the room, so silent that even his shoes on the floor made no sound.

Bergman, Roarke and Leslie watched him go; then the doctor, his voice lowered, ventured the questions Leslie had been thinking but dared not put voice to. "What happened to him?"

Roarke's expression grew rueful. "The natives looked upon Dr. Vandervick as some sort of..." He put a hand to his head for a second as though searching for the word, then gave a little headshake and turned away to pace the room at leisure. "...evil magician, working with dead bodies...turning them into zombies." He paused at the end of the operating table and turned to meet Bergman's gaze again; Leslie had edged over near the window, unwilling to stand too close to this cold, closed stranger, but also not wanting to constantly follow her guardian like a puppy trailing its master on a leash.

Roarke continued: "One night, seventeen—no, eighteen years ago, they stormed this building, murdered the doctor, and, uh..." He resumed his slow pacing. "...well, poor Makalo was lucky to escape with his life." Leslie frowned at that; as Roarke so often did, he'd answered without answering. She could only suppose that said natives had attempted to slit Makalo's throat and damaged, or perhaps even destroyed, the man's larynx in so doing. This time she couldn't control the shudder.

"The world is full of superstitious primitives," Bergman grunted, "many of whom have a college degree." He joined Roarke on the other side of the room. "I've never let them disturb or discourage me, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke nodded, and Bergman eyed him. "Have you brought what I've been waiting for?"

"Yes, Dr. Bergman...if," Roarke said, his voice carrying hints of warning, "you are still absolutely certain you want to go through with it."

"Of course I'm certain," Bergman snapped.

Before Roarke could reply, they heard the distant beat of drums, and Leslie turned to peer out the window. _That jerk,_ was her first thought, _he wasn't kidding about leading the charge, and Dr. Bergman hasn't even done anything yet!_ Outside she could see some of the natives, standing in the lane and peering past the huts into the trees as though watching someone approaching. While Roarke and Bergman regarded each other, Leslie saw several young men round the corner of a nearby hut, bearing a stretcher with someone lying on it. Swallowing thickly, she turned to Roarke and advised, "Somebody's coming, and I think they have...um, what Dr. Bergman needs."

Bergman shot Roarke one last look, then came to the window himself and peered out just as the native men came into full view with their stretcher. Now they could clearly see the person on it, and as the young men stopped, Bergman recognized her. _"Lisa!"_ he cried in horror. "Oh my god! Lisa!" He hustled past Leslie and Roarke and made for the door; she ran to her guardian's side, sticking close by him as he followed Bergman out to the lane where the young men had just put the stretcher on the ground. The man beside Makalo stopped Roarke and poured out a hurried torrent of words too low for Leslie to hear, but Roarke listened intently, then nodded, closing his eyes for a second or two.

Bergman dashed past several other natives, kneeling beside the stretcher. "Lisa! _Lisa!"_ Roarke and Leslie came up behind him while he felt for a pulse and exclaimed in growing panic, "My god, she can't...no, she can't be dead! How?" He turned pleadingly to Roarke, Leslie and Makalo, who stood in stoic silence beside the enigmatic owner of the island. "Why?"

"I have just learned that she was swimming alone in the lagoon, when for some reason she went under," Roarke told him, his voice thick with regret and shared sorrow. "One of the men swam out and found her lying on the bottom; he brought her to shore, but by then...it was too late." Roarke's voice rose. "Fate can work in cruel ways, doctor. You demanded a body—and now that demand has been met." Leslie stared at him in disbelief, her fists against her mouth.

Bergman was showing more emotion than any of them had seen since his arrival on the island; he was almost in tears. "As God is my witness, I never—I _never_ wanted this!"

"Perhaps all is not lost," suggested Roarke, and Bergman turned to gape at him. "Not irretrievably. You came here to raise the dead; what better test of your powers could there be than this, doctor? The resurrection of your own flesh and blood."

Bergman laid a hand on Lisa's forehead, gasping, "Yes...yes, I'll bring her back. I'll do it—I'll bring my daughter back!" He turned to them, then signaled frantically at Makalo. "Help me, help me—hurry!" Makalo sprang to the other end of the stretcher and assisted Bergman and two other natives with lifting it, toting it into the laboratory while Roarke and a shocked Leslie watched them go by.

"He can't possibly..." Leslie muttered, her words muffled by her fists. "I mean, it isn't..."

Roarke glanced around them and noticed most of the natives muttering, though they turned away and huddled in grumbling knots when they saw him make eye contact with them. "We'd better leave here and let the doctor make his attempts," he murmured to his ward, leading her to the rover. Within a minute they were on their way back to the main house.

It took Leslie some time to regain her equilibrium enough to speak. "Are you sure he can do what he keeps talking about?" she asked. "You mentioned experiments. I guess what I want to know is, have any of them actually succeeded?"

Roarke glanced at her before turning his grim gaze back onto the road. After a minute he said quietly, "Not one of them so far."

She slumped in her seat. "Oh no," she mumbled. "And you can't do anything!" Again Roarke glanced at her, but this time said nothing, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach, wondering how high a price Dr. Bergman would ultimately pay for his fantasy.


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § - March 21, 1981

Midafternoon, Roarke got a call from one of the few permanent residents of the Enclave—the somewhat isolated lane along which about ten mansions were located, a little east of midway across the island—in regard to the possibility of allowing occasional fantasies to take place on his property. Leslie had finished the mail between their arrival home from Dr. Bergman's hamlet and lunch, so he invited her to come along. She didn't have much else to do, so she agreed; she didn't see the Enclave much, for its residents tended to keep to themselves in general. Most of the mansions were in the possession of absentee owners, but there were a couple of mansions that were occupied full-time.

Leslie noticed in passing that the person who had called—a retired entrepreneur who had sold his business at such a profit that he'd been able to buy his island residence outright—lived next door to Avery Williams' "winter cottage", and got the feeling that Roarke just might take the chance to check in on their guest. But she never could have predicted how it would come about.

They had just concluded their meeting with the retired businessman when a loud _boom_ rolled across the landscape; Leslie let out a shriek, and Roarke stopped in his tracks, staring at the tall, thick hedge that separated this property from the Williams mansion. The neighbor, just heading back into his house, paused and demanded, "What was that?"

"I'll look into it, Mr. Cavendish, never fear," Roarke assured him. "Leslie, come with me." He made straight for a nearly hidden break in the hedge that led to the Williams property, forcing her to come after him in spite of her trepidation over the explosion. She had always had a sudden-loud-noise phobia, and even as she plunged after her guardian, she could feel the trembling that always followed an adrenaline rush.

They came in on four people just picking themselves up from the ground: Frank Miller in his disguise as Avery Williams; a blond man who looked like a jock; and two blonde women, one with Miller and the other with the second man. They all seemed shaken; Roarke took in the scene at a glance, checked behind him to be sure Leslie was there, and then went to Miller and his companion to see if they were all right. As soon as he did, though, Miller informed him breathlessly, "Mr. Roarke—someone just tried to kill Avery Williams."

Roarke noticed the expression on Miller's companion's face and said, "A slight concussion...it obviously has confused him." That much was true, thought Leslie, seeing the blank, open-mouthed look on Frank Miller. "I suggest you lie down for a while, Avery...Mr. Williams." He put so much emphasis on both names that Leslie was convinced everyone else in the yard would know then and there that something was up.

"Now just a minute—" Miller began.

But Roarke broke in, "I did warn you, didn't I, that your life might be in danger? Your enemies might try again! I suggest you take appropriate precautions immediately, _Mr. Williams."_ He nodded firmly at Miller, who still looked knocked off-balance, and watched as the blonde woman beside him gave them both a dubious look. Miller managed, visibly, to pull himself together, and Roarke seemed to decide that was good enough. "Will you excuse us...come, Leslie," he said, and guided her across the emerald carpet of lawn that stretched out toward the rover at enough of a distance to make the car look like a child's toy.

"Just what we needed," muttered Leslie. "An explosion. I wonder how it happened."

Roarke tossed a quick look over his shoulder, but they were already out of sight of those in the backyard of the Williams house. "What truly matters is that Mr. Miller does his utmost to preserve his life in the face of concrete evidence that someone is after his alter ego. He was warned; now he must be doubly careful." He sighed a little as they reached the rover finally and got in. "It seems quite a few lives are hanging in the balance this weekend."

"Oh boy," mumbled Leslie. "I guess that means we're going right back to see what's happening with Dr. Bergman."

The glance he cast her was impressed. "Well deduced, young lady. I advise you to stay close to me at all times—otherwise it won't be safe. I'm not sure how safe it will be even then."

"I had no intention of going anywhere you weren't going too," Leslie assured him dryly, and he chuckled as he started the car and pointed it back toward the Ring Road.

They heard the drums beating long before they saw the gathering of natives in the lane; most of them had painted faces and were holding spears, and one wore an enormous grotesque mask that covered him from his head to his knees. "I hope we're not too late," Roarke muttered, stopping the car well short of the group. "They're more agitated than even I had expected. Stick with me." She slid across the front seat and joined him once he'd gotten out, and they gave the gang in the lane a wide berth, half jogging close to the other huts to reach the laboratory.

Roarke let himself and Leslie into the room without bothering with niceties. "Doctor, you must leave here immediately," he insisted.

"No," Bergman protested, gesturing at the operating table where Lisa lay. "Can't you see?"

"The natives are preparing to attack," Roarke told him. "Somehow they have found out what you're trying to do here, and they are filled with fear."

"I can't leave my daughter," Bergman said stubbornly.

"Your daughter is _dead_ , doctor! You must accept that fact!"

"No! No, there's still hope—I'm going to operate!"

Leslie chanced a look toward Lisa and wondered how many hours had passed since her decease; but then the gang outside began yelling, their voices rising in volume, and Roarke looked around as if trying to discern what they were saying. For the first time Bergman looked a little nervous; even the silent Makalo, waiting nearby, had a wary look in his eyes. Roarke met Bergman's gaze and shook his head a little. "It's too late now, Dr. Bergman."

"I won't leave my daughter," the surgeon stated flatly.

Roarke's expression grew slightly incredulous, but he seemed to accept the verdict. "Then it would appear that history is about to repeat itself." He held Bergman's gaze for a few more seconds, then took Leslie's arm and added, "Come, Makalo." The mute man wasted no time following Roarke and Leslie out of the building, and vanished as soon as they had cleared the mob outside.

By now it was dark, and Roarke urged Leslie back to the car; they returned straight to the main house, where Tattoo was waiting for them. "No calls or anything," he said as they came in. "I guess most everybody's at the luau." He looked up and really saw them then. "What's wrong?"

"If you'll come with us, my friend," Roarke said, "we'll make one last visit to Dr. Bergman." He smiled a bit wryly. "Perhaps fortunately for him, his fantasy is one of those that will come to its end within only one day. Leslie, stand here between us; take my hand, and Tattoo, you take her other hand." Leslie stared at him as Tattoo followed instructions.

"What're we doing?" she asked.

"Just wait," Tattoo advised, and winked at her when she turned to look at him.

Roarke smiled and offered, "You might want to close your eyes, Leslie."

Something compelled her to hold her breath as well as squeezing her eyes shut; she tightened her grip on both Roarke's and Tattoo's hands, and held herself still. She thought the surface beneath her feet seemed to have changed, and frowned in perplexity.

"It's okay, Leslie, open your eyes now," Tattoo said, his voice low but containing a laugh.

She squinted around, let out her breath and blinked, taking in the jungle surrounding them. The night sounds were everywhere; a night crier called not far away, and from somewhere she could see the low flicker of firelight. "What...where are we?"

Roarke raised a finger to his lips, then indicated with a gesture a break in the trees that showed several primitive torches burning in a clearing not too far away. Then there was a movement, and she saw Dr. Bergman hurry past. Bewildered, she watched as he gathered a young woman into his arms and hugged her tightly. Over his shoulder, Leslie recognized the face of Lisa Bergman.

Their voices rose enough to be heard now. "What is this, some cruel dream?" Dr. Bergman asked, setting Lisa back from him a step or two.

"Dream?" echoed Lisa. Her voice shook a little. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Lisa, you were dead," her father declared. "I tried to bring you back and I couldn't."

"It's so strange," Lisa said, blinking in confusion. "I don't remember anything since..." Her eyes widened with sudden recollection. "Since I was swimming in the lagoon and...and then I—" She looked behind her as if trying to make eye contact with someone. "I woke up over there and I saw you."

"It's a miracle," Bergman uttered.

"Indeed it is, doctor," Roarke said then, visibly startling both father and daughter. He was calm; Tattoo had that sphinxlike look he sometimes got about him, which usually annoyed Leslie, but which she now tried to emulate to whatever extent possible. Now she and Tattoo accompanied him as he approached the Bergmans. "A miracle. Not of science, but of love. It seems that you have finally achieved your aim to resurrect the dead."

Leslie wasn't the only one befuddled by this statement. Bergman noted, "Mr. Roarke, according to all the instruments in the lab, Lisa _was_ clinically dead."

"As dead as you were, doctor," said Tattoo, startling Leslie even more. _What have I missed, for crying out loud?_ she wondered.

His remark caught the Bergmans by surprise. "Me?" the doctor blurted.

"In a sense," Roarke observed, "you have been dead for over a year...so far as your daughter was concerned. But now you are alive again, restored to her."

Bergman looked around and gestured toward the clearing where the torches still burned; for the first time Leslie saw a fresh grave right in the middle. "Then who's buried there?" Bergman asked.

Roarke eyed the grave and said with a slight shrug, "Who knows? Maybe the past."

After a wondering moment Lisa turned to her father and said, "We have the future to share, and a lot to catch up on."

"We certainly do," her father agreed, and they hugged each other again.

They took the time to lead the Bergmans back to the house with the lab; they had decided to stay the night there, giving Tattoo, Roarke and Leslie the opportunity to secrete themselves in a dark room and return home the same way they had arrived in the jungle. Again Leslie had to close her eyes and hold her breath; this time Roarke laughed. "It might be easier for you next time if you simply relax, my dear Leslie," he suggested. "It's not an ordeal to be borne. You don't feel anything when the transportation happens, do you?"

"Well, no...but I can't help expecting to," she admitted. "Anyway, I do kind of feel something. I mean, one second there's dirt and grass under my feet, and the next second we're standing on the rug in here. I can feel the difference."

"I can too," Tattoo said, giving Roarke a slightly accusing look. "I suppose you don't."

"I don't pay much attention to it, in all honesty," Roarke said, amused. "But perhaps, if you two are feeling a little disoriented, we might take a little walk before we retire for the night."

They both agreed, and had been strolling for a few minutes when Tattoo suddenly spoke up: "Boss, there's something I don't understand."

"What?" prompted Roarke.

"Dr. Bergman examined Lisa..."

"For vital signs," said Roarke, "using almost every instrument known to modern medicine."

"And pronounced her dead," Tattoo insisted.

Roarke smiled. "Well, _dead_ is only a word, Tattoo. And in spite of its ring of ultimate finality, it has many meanings. A person can be clinically dead, legally dead..." He paused and glanced over Tattoo's head, and Leslie followed his gaze, to see Makalo approaching them. "Even emotionally dead," Roarke added.

"Boss," begged Tattoo, "don't blind me with science. Just give me the straight dope." Leslie grinned at that.

"Yeah, I'd kind of like to know the story too," she said. "You do so much verbal pussyfooting around, it'd be nice to get it in plain, direct language."

Roarke took in their expressions, and without further ado said, "Okay, I rigged the instruments."

Leslie's mouth fell open; Tattoo's expression cleared. "With the help of Makalo."

"Let's put it this way, Tattoo," Roarke suggested. "It was simply a matter of controlling the available data. Right, Makalo?"

His smile seemed knowing, and Tattoo and Leslie both turned to Makalo for the reply—only to find themselves watching him peel off the long scar that ran down his left cheek and across his throat. _Stage makeup!_ Leslie thought. _Stupid me, with Myeko in drama classes and always talking about how much fun they have with stage makeup._ _She_ _probably would've known it if she saw it._ She noticed Tattoo's dumbfounded expression, and grinned again as Makalo said clearly, "Right, Mr. Roarke!"

Slowly Tattoo turned to stare up at Roarke. "Boss, I'm still confused."

"And I'm hungry," announced Roarke cheerfully. "Shall we eat?" He handed Makalo a tuft of orange hair and then gave Tattoo the huge mask Leslie had earlier seen on one of the natives, turning and heading back toward the house with Makalo at his side.

Leslie fell into step beside him, trying to stifle a laugh as Tattoo complained, "Boss, wait...hey, I can't see! Wait for me, boss—I can't see! Wait for me!"

Makalo hurried ahead of them and vanished again; Roarke let out a chuckle, and Leslie finally stopped long enough to call back, "Really, Tattoo, just take that thing off and carry it!" Tattoo did so, giving her a glare and shifting it to Roarke when he noticed his boss' poorly hidden grin.

"All right, enough," Roarke said, laughing. "We have to get to the luau. There's to be a special announcement there, so we must hurry."

"I thought you were hungry," Leslie challenged him as the threesome strode down the path toward the luau clearing.

"I am," her guardian said, smiling. "We'll eat after the announcement. I'm sure you'd rather sit and partake of the buffet at leisure, instead of bolting down your food."

She had to agree with that, but her stomach had begun rumbling now that the subject of food had been raised, and she was beginning to get a bit impatient. By the time they reached the edge of the clearing, she had her arms wrapped around her abdomen, hoping to calm the growling. They watched from their vantage point as native servers brought drinks to guests at tables, while a hula dancer performed on a small dance floor and the attendees looked on. One table toward the left held Frank Miller; Avery Williams' wife, Bernice; Bernice's friend Paul Yeager, the jock type; and Elizabeth Leston, Williams' secretary. Leslie had been apprised of these people's identities after the attempt on Miller's life earlier in the day.

The server reached their table and began to distribute drinks; Bernice made a furtive movement that attracted Roarke's and Leslie's attention (Tattoo, Leslie had noticed, had his eyeballs glued to the hula dancer). They watched her dig into a small clutch and extract a gold-colored object shaped like an enlarged bullet, then hand it to Paul in such a way that neither Miller nor Elizabeth saw the exchange. Leslie looked at Roarke; it was clear from his expression that he knew exactly what was happening, but by now she figured he had a reason for holding his silence. She pushed her hands into her skirt pockets and rested her weight on one foot, waiting to see what would happen.

Then Paul knocked over a glass so that its contents spilled into Miller's lap; he bolted to his feet, and Elizabeth helped him try to mop up the mess while Paul broke open the gold capsule and let some sort of clear liquid fall into one of the newly arrived drinks. Bernice shot him a look that betrayed her agitation; Roarke nodded a little, as if to himself. They watched the server lift the altered drink and set it in front of Miller.

The hula came to an end and the audience applauded; in the middle of clapping, Paul made a tossing motion over his shoulder, straight at the spot where Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie stood. In a flash Roarke whipped the black handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and caught the gold capsule in it, even as Leslie ducked aside and Tattoo blinked with mild surprise. Roarke studied the capsule for a second or two, then wrapped the black silk around it and tucked the little package back into his pocket. "Come, you two," he said briskly, "we have just been invited to join Mr. Williams' party." Tattoo nodded; Leslie had to squelch a grin. _Interesting invitation,_ she reflected, letting the grin become a giggle when Roarke appropriated a glass from the tray of a passing server.

She and Tattoo followed him to the table where Miller and his party sat. "Ladies and gentlemen, good evening," Roarke greeted them.

Paul sat forward, looking genial. "I would like to propose a toast," he said.

"A good idea, Mr. Yeager," Roarke agreed brightly, and before anyone could move, he reached out and gave the tabletop a spin so that it began to rotate clockwise. Paul and Bernice, Leslie noted, both looked startled and nervous, watching the table turning. "What'd you do that for?" Paul demanded.

Smoothly Roarke explained, "It's an old Fantasy Island custom, to promote good fellowship. The table is so constructed that it can be spun around, like a lazy Susan..." Just then the table stopped, placing the doctored drink in front of Bernice—who looked up in open horror. Seemingly oblivious, Roarke continued, "Each person gets to taste each of the drinks, you see. May I suggest that the first toast should be to Mr. Avery Williams, who is about to endow the Foundation for International Education with a check for four hundred and sixty million dollars." He raised his glass and drank; Leslie and Tattoo shot each other glances across the table, then studied those who were seated around it. Miller gladly took a sip from his drink, and Elizabeth and Paul followed suit—the latter betraying his disquiet as he did so. Bernice swallowed so thickly they could see it, but she made no move to touch the drink in front of her.

Roarke lowered his glass and pretended to only just then take notice. "Mrs. Williams, perhaps you do not approve of my suggestion," he said. "Do you have a more appropriate toast to suggest?"

"Uh...I'm not very good at toasts," Bernice replied with an overbright smile.

Roarke regarded her curiously, still smiling broadly. "Why, you surprise me! You are good at so many things requiring imaginative thinking, poise and cool nerve. Well, in that case, let's make it simple." He spun the tabletop again. "Now, Mr. Yeager, something warm and personal in honor of your dear friend and employer."

Tattoo's puzzlement overcame him at last and he put in, "What is this, boss, roulette?"

"One might say a form of...Russian roulette, yes," Roarke remarked, with a slight laugh in his voice; Leslie peered sidewise at him and half-smiled, wondering just how far he intended to take this little game of his. She could see Paul and Bernice watching the rotating table with wary eyes.

It took another ten seconds for the table to stop, and this time the fateful drink landed in front of Paul Yeager, which didn't surprise Leslie at all. There was no doubt in her mind that her guardian was controlling the table's movement. Paul gaped at the coconut cup, freezing in his chair.

"Oh, come, Mr. Yeager...surely you have a toast to propose?" Roarke prompted, all smiles. "Don't be bashful."

"Uhhh...I think maybe you better count me out," Paul evaded. "My stomach...these tropical drinks don't...agree with me."

"Oh, I am so sorry. Do you suppose you could have drunk some of the poison you poured into Mr. Williams' drink?" Roarke queried pointedly. Frank Miller frowned a little and stared up at Roarke; Tattoo's eyes widened.

"What—what'd you say?" Paul blurted.

Roarke smiled, and without a word extracted the handkerchief from his pocket, pulling back a fold and displaying the gold capsule. Paul's face fell even before Roarke said coolly, "I am sure that this has your fingerprints on it. Possibly Mrs. Williams' as well." He turned to Bernice with a jovial look; she returned it with a thin veneer of bravado.

"It's your word against ours, Roarke," she countered, though her voice didn't sound very confident.

Then Paul demanded, "What do you mean, _ours?_ It was _your_ idea!"

"Liar!" Bernice snapped, popping to her feet so fast she nearly overturned the table, and glared at him. "You wanted Avery dead as much as I did." Paul slumped back, his expression indicating that he knew the game was up.

Miller cast Roarke a wry smile, and glances bounced around the table as Bernice became aware of what she had just said, straightening up and looking guiltily around. Roarke picked up the poisoned drink and ejected the contents from the cup into the nearby bushes, then signaled at two island constables waiting not far away. "Gentlemen?" Silently they came forward and took the subdued Paul and Bernice away with them.

"I would like a word with you, Mr. Williams," Roarke said then, putting down his drink and placing a little emphasis on the surname. "In private, if I may."

"Yes, of course," Miller agreed, getting to his feet.

"Tattoo, will you and Leslie keep Miss Leston company?" Roarke requested, and they both agreed, taking chairs, though as Leslie watched her guardian lead Miller aside, she found herself wishing they'd hurry up so that she could finally have something to eat. She had to admit, she was glad both fantasies had been resolved in one day; it was an extremely rare Sunday when she could do as she pleased. She stifled a yawn and tuned in to the conversation between Tattoo and Elizabeth.

§ § § - March 23, 1981

Leslie was still laughing when they reached the plane dock Monday morning; she had found out from Roarke that Avery Williams had suggested to Frank Miller that they repeat their weekend switch each year, just after Roarke had taken Miller aside to speak to him at the luau. When Roarke had told the two men that it was his policy never to repeat a fantasy, Williams had suggested that he might see fit to find his $460 million check to the educational foundation a forgery—which had convinced Roarke to agree with hardly any argument at all. "So I guess you can be bought after all, Mr. Roarke," she teased her guardian as they stepped out of the rover and Roarke signaled at the band to start playing its farewell music.

"Only for the right price, my dear Leslie," Roarke riposted with a smirk. "I suggest that you turn your mind to other matters now, if you please." But she saw the twinkle in his dark eyes, and grinned at him before watching the first car arrive with Dr. Lucas Bergman and Lisa.

"Dr. Bergman, I trust your stay on the island was satisfactory," Roarke greeted him.

"Very. In fact, I think I learned more in my short stay here than all my years of practicing medicine."

"Well, that's remarkable. May we have some idea of what that might be?" asked Roarke.

Bergman smiled faintly. "It's very simple, really. Life is for the living, and love is for those who are still close." He turned to Lisa, who beamed and squeezed his hand.

"What about your fantasy, Lisa?" Tattoo inquired.

"Well, I have my father back," she said and smiled. "That's all I could ask for." She turned to Roarke and offered a hand. "I'll never forget you, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke thanked her, but Bergman, putting out his own hand for shaking, broke in, "I'm still not sure exactly how you did it."

About to answer, Roarke found himself pre-empted by Tattoo, who informed him smoothly, "It's very simple, doctor. It's just a matter of controlling the available data." He tossed Roarke a quick conspiratorial glance, which Roarke returned with a touch of consternation.

"Something like that," he agreed, nodding, while Leslie grinned again.

Their guests made their farewells and departed, and Roarke shot Tattoo an exasperated look, about to comment, before apparently changing his mind. Leslie hid her own amusement with a final wave at the Bergmans.

When Frank Miller disembarked from the second rover, Roarke asked, "Mr. Miller, was your fantasy all that you hoped it would be?"

"Oh, more...so much more, Mr. Roarke, because now I can go back and make those rich people even richer, and not be concerned with one dollar. Because I'm coming back to Fantasy Island to take care of business and _be_ Avery Williams." Miller looked quite self-satisfied as he said this, and Leslie had to admit to herself that in a way she couldn't blame him.

"One year is a long time to stay away from somebody you care about," commented Tattoo. They had all been apprised by Miller of his mutual attraction to Elizabeth Leston.

Miller sighed a little. "Yes...that's the only sad part, Tattoo. I hope...I hope Elizabeth will be waiting."

Roarke looked regretful as he responded, "Oh, I'm afraid not, Mr. Miller. You see, Miss Leston is not the patient type." He aimed a deliberate gaze off to his left and made a gesture; Miller followed it, and there was Elizabeth Leston, wearing a tentative, hopeful smile.

Miller's own face broke into a bright grin, and he went right to her; their hosts watched as she stepped into his embrace and teased, "How dare you just break into my life and then not ask me to go with you?" He gave her a firm kiss, and with that they were gone.

"Some fantasies produce their own fantastic surprises, you know," Roarke remarked. "Mr. Williams has decided to send his secretary to manage a new branch office in—are you ready?—Mr. Miller's hometown."

"Convenient, isn't it?" Leslie joshed him, and he simply smiled.

Tattoo suddenly called out toward the dock, "Don't forget to send me a letter about grain futures!" That earned him an odd look from Miller, though he did give Tattoo a big thumbs-up before heading for the plane with Elizabeth.

"Seriously," muttered Leslie, shaking her head.

That seemed to wake up Roarke, who turned to Tattoo and queried suspiciously, "What did you say? Grain futures?" Tattoo nodded, and Roarke said, "I suppose you plan to corner the market."

"Boss...everyone can have a fantasy, can't he?" Tattoo retorted.

Roarke rolled his eyes, started to say something, then gave up; Leslie shook her head a little. "Trouble with you is, it's always the same fantasy."

"Brat," said Tattoo, and she smirked, catching Roarke's long-suffering expression and knowing full well he was faking it.

§ § § - April 6, 2012

Christian had been leaning forward for some time as Roarke and Leslie recounted the tale, drumming his fingers on the sofa arm; when they had finished, he pounced. "So you rigged the equipment, did you?" he asked with a sly grin. "Perhaps that would have fooled anyone else—but you were dealing with a doctor. And he, of all people, would have checked for Lisa's pulse first, with his fingers, _before_ connecting her to any machines. Now tell me how you got around that!"

Roarke chuckled, not the least bit daunted. "My dear Christian—keep in mind that the patient was the doctor's own daughter. If in fact he did check for a pulse, he was so upset and distracted that he took no notice of the fact that there was a pulse—though it was a faint one."

"Sounds fishy to me," Roald said, grinning as if he were happy to get in on the byplay.

"I know!" Tobias crowed all of a sudden. "You knew that lady was goin' swimming, so you put some kind of magic stuff in the water, and that made her look pretend dead for a while and it fooled the doctor—right, Grandfather?"

Everyone burst out laughing at this pronouncement, and Roarke tousled his grandson's hair. "There are some secrets I'll never tell," he told the boy impishly, and Tobias snickered, delighted at the attention he'd gotten.

"I'm wondering something about the other fantasy," Roald said then. "The stock-market thing. What was that guy talking about? Just about anybody can play the stock market, and you said he told Tattoo it was a rich man's game."

"Back then, it was," Leslie told him. "The changes that made the concept of investing in stocks an everyman's thing were several years in the future; at the time of that fantasy, it was still strictly for the wealthy. Not that that kind of thing ever stopped Tattoo." They all laughed again.

"So that couldn't've been the only time you had to deal with people who wanted to live forever somehow, or restore life to the dead," Roald said. "The two sort of tie into each other, I think."

Christian made a contemplative noise, exchanged a glance with Leslie and nodded. "Yes, they're definitely related, insofar as the clan gift I wish I didn't have could be exploited by those who are forever hunting down eternal life or even eternal youth."

"Eternal youth?" Roald repeated, looking perplexed. "How does that tie in with it?"

"I see what you're saying," Leslie broke in, grasping Christian's meaning. "The Kullenäs power cures whatever caused the death, in the process of restoring life. Suppose you expired of simple old age. Theoretically at least, if one of the powered clan members brought you back, that old age would be 'cured', in a manner of speaking, and you'd be young when you were resurrected. Or at least younger." She caught Roarke's eye. "Does that sound logical to you?"

Roarke nodded. "It certainly makes sense," he said. "However, if there were ever any examples of this occurring, they've been lost in distant time." He gave Christian a droll look and deadpanned, "I myself can expect to perish of old age in the next half-century or thereabouts. At that time, you can test the theory and see if Leslie is correct."

Roald grinned, but Christian shifted uncomfortably beside Leslie. "Ach, Mr. Roarke, I'd prefer not to discuss that. Go back to what Roald was asking in regard to people looking for eternal life. Even disregarding any reference to the power, there's no way you could run a business like yours and not have at least a few people come here seeking that. For that matter, I'm sure there were more than just a few."

"I had my share over the years," Roarke agreed with a wry smile. "But most seekers of that particular fantasy came here in the nineteenth or the first two or three decades of the twentieth centuries. By the time the most recent occurrence took place, Leslie was nearly ready to graduate from high school, and it had been some sixty years at least since the last request for eternal life. But it was for a most unexpected reason, which I think the two of you, Christian and Leslie, should appreciate..."


	11. Chapter 11

§ § § - March 5, 1983

To the strains of the Caribbean-flavored music Roarke had been using this year, a young couple stepped out of the charter plane: the man, dark-haired and slender, turned back to give a hand to the woman, golden blonde and more striking than beautiful. "They look like a happy couple, boss," said Tattoo brightly. "Who are they?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Weston from Phoeniz, Arizona," Roarke explained. "They are newlyweds."

"Did they come here to have their honeymoon?" Tattoo inquired.

Roarke looked concerned. "I only wish they had."

At that Leslie and Tattoo traded glances. "Then what're they doing here?" Leslie asked.

"They must have some kind of fantasy," Tattoo guessed.

Roarke frowned. "They hope to discover the secret of eternal life, so they can be together for all time. If they succeed, it could mean exactly the opposite."

Neither Leslie nor Tattoo could find anything to say to that; so when another blonde woman—this one some years older than the newlywed woman—emerged from the seaplane's hatch, Tattoo put the focus on her. "That lady looks kind of shy, boss." She was dressed in clothing that to Leslie looked like something one would wear to a Saturday-night country square dance—a high-necked light-purple blouse and a ruffled knee-length blue skirt that didn't match at all, and what appeared to be nothing less than white go-go boots.

"Very shy, Tattoo," Roarke concurred. "That is Miss Margaret Winslow, a file clerk from Salem, Oregon."

"Hm, that must be pretty boring," Tattoo remarked as Margaret Winslow ventured down the dock, peering around her with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

"Well, apparently Miss Winslow does find it boring," said Roarke, "which is why she seeks escape in the movies."

"Oh, her fantasy is to become a movie star?" queried Tattoo.

"If you ask me, _that's_ boring," interjected Leslie. "We get loads of those."

Roarke laughed. "Not quite, you two. She wishes to have a date with Burt Hunter." He said the name in a significant way that clearly anticipated a major reaction from his assistant and his ward.

He got it; Leslie's eyes popped with incredulity, and Tattoo exclaimed, "Aha! You mean Double Agent Simon Flynn!"

"Uh, well, yes, that is the role Mr. Hunter is best known for playing," Roarke admitted.

"Boss, can I meet him?" Tattoo asked hopefully. "I'm a big fan of his."

"You and a gazillion other people," Leslie said, shaking her head skeptically.

Roarke eyed Tattoo with remonstration. "In due time, Tattoo—this is Miss Winslow's fantasy, remember?" Tattoo shrugged concession and Leslie grinned at his reaction, while Roarke watched Margaret Winslow step off the dock onto the grass. "...A fantasy which may take some rather unexpected turns."

"Don't they all," Leslie said, shooting her guardian a knowing look. All she got in return was a mysterious little half-smile before Roarke's drink arrived and he toasted their guests. Leslie, looking on, made a mental note to get out her little autograph book and keep it on her for the rest of the weekend till Roarke decided she and Tattoo could properly meet Burt Hunter.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie had just enough time to race upstairs and grab her autograph book from its hiding place behind the framed photo of herself at age twelve with her mother and the twins, before joining Roarke and Tattoo on the walk to the lane where the bungalows were located. Tattoo carried a white box tied with red ribbon and crowned with a large red pom-pom of a bow; when the Westons answered their knock and let them in, he set the box on a round marble-topped table that served as a coffee table while Roarke introduced Leslie, and the couple gave their names as Alex and Diana. Hands were shaken all around; beverages were offered, and since it was tea, Leslie declined and Tattoo merely shook his head. Alex brought cups to his wife and Roarke, then poured himself one and turned back to them.

"I want you to understand, Mr. Roarke," Alex Weston said, "I've never felt about anyone the way I do about Diana." He took his seat beside his wife. "We're alike in so many ways."

Diana nodded. "We both put our energy into school and then our careers. We never dated much."

"It was almost as if we were...waiting for each other," concurred Alex. "Since the moment we met, everything has been perfect." The two smiled at each other in a besotted manner that stirred something wistful deep within Leslie.

"What kind of work do you do?" Tattoo asked curiously from his spot beside Roarke's chair. Leslie hovered behind the chair, listening in.

"Alex is an architect, and I'm an interior decorator," Diana explained. "We have our own firm now, and we spend all day and all night together."

"And," added Alex with a near belligerence, "we want it to stay that way. Forever."

Roarke regarded them in silence for a few seconds, then queried, "Have you really thought of what it would mean for you to live on while friends—even your children—grew old and died?"

Alex frowned and Diana's face fell. Reluctantly she murmured, "Mr. Roarke...we can't have children. And Alex is my closest friend. We feel whole together."

"The only thing in the world that could separate us is death," declared Alex, meeting Diana's gaze and smiling gently at her.

She nodded, smiling back, still looking into Alex's eyes even though her words were addressed to their hosts. "We can't bear the thought of ever being apart."

"A lot of people have died looking for the fountain of youth," Tattoo commented.

"I hear they've died looking for eternal life, too," ventured Leslie, causing Roarke to cast her a sort of half-glance over his shoulder without actually meeting her gaze. Tattoo nodded solemnly; the Westons eyed her, then looked at each other.

"Tattoo and Leslie are right," Roarke said gravely, shaking his head a few times. "I caution you—cherish what you have. Don't risk it for something that's probably a mere myth."

Alex dipped his head for a moment, looking amused. "We believe that all myth is founded in the truth, Mr. Roarke."

"Can you help us?" Diana entreated, turning a pleading gaze on Roarke.

Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other, then watched Roarke as he got to his feet and paced toward the raised dining area of the bungalow's main room. After a few seconds, he spoke. "There is an island to the south of here, very remote, totally cut off from civilization as we know it. Local legend says that the people who settled there came from a powerful and mystical land, far, far away." He paused, his expression and tone becoming a little more foreboding. "Perhaps you will find what you are seeking there." The Westons exchanged excited grins as Roarke added, "But I must warn you, it could be very...very dangerous."

He might as well have saved the caveat, for Diana was beaming with anticipation and Alex spoke with finality. "When do we leave?"

Rather than responding, Tattoo asked them, "Can you both swim?"

"Yes, of course," Diana said, baffled. "Why?"

Tattoo smiled and cast Leslie a look; when she got a nod from Roarke, she realized she was to do the honors, and picked up the red-ribboned white box from the table, handing it to Diana Weston. The young woman murmured a thanks as Leslie stepped back, and removed the ribbon, lifting the lid and extracting a wad of glistening brown fabric. She set down the box, then shook out the wad, which turned out to be two wads when one fell to the floor. Diana's turned out to be a one-piece woman's swimsuit; Alex bent down to pick up the other, which he revealed to be a set of swim trunks.

"Change into those," Roarke instructed, "and we will take you to a special pool."

Within ten minutes the five of them were standing on the bank of a small pool no more than perhaps ten feet across, which was fed by a small waterfall. Roarke raised his voice to be heard above the splash of water into the pond. "Now, if you'll go into the pool and dive under the water...your fantasy will begin."

"Uh, Mr. Roarke—" Alex began in skeptical protest.

"Please," Roarke broke in, gesturing to the water. "Please, do as I say."

"Remember where you are," offered Leslie.

The Westons gave her an odd look, then shot each other glances and shrugs before moving to the edge of the pool, hand in hand, and sharing a tender kiss before stepping into the water. Alex took Diana's hand again as soon as she had slipped in, and they waded to the middle of the pool, then traded one last look before diving beneath the surface and vanishing.

When they didn't resurface, Leslie turned to her guardian. "Mr. Roarke, are they supposed to swim all the way to that little island you told them about?"

Roarke laughed. "Hardly, Leslie; in effect I've shown them a shortcut." His levity faded as he gazed into the now-empty pool. "I can only hope that they will return tomorrow evening." Tattoo and Leslie had time to give each other apprehensive looks before Roarke pulled himself up straight. "But I am afraid it's out of our hands now. Come, you two, we must meet Miss Winslow."

"Are we gonna meet Burt Hunter then?" Tattoo put in on their way to the rover, which Roarke had left parked at the Ring Road a couple of minutes' walk away.

"Yes, Tattoo," Roarke said. "Have a little patience, will you? Your chance will come, I assure you—and yes, Leslie, you'll meet him too. We don't want to be late, so we'd best hurry."

Margaret Winslow was waiting for them in Roarke's office when they walked in, and again they exchanged introductions and handshakes; their guest urged them to call her Maggie. Roarke asked Tattoo to check on Burt Hunter at his bungalow, then ushered Maggie and Leslie out to the terrace behind the house, where Roarke and Leslie sat at the tea table and Maggie wandered over to examine the tall bushes studded with bright-red blossoms. "You sure have an interesting fantasy," Leslie commented, hoping she sounded diplomatic, for in truth they got dozens of requests every month to meet famous people of all sorts.

"I live a very rich fantasy life," Maggie admitted readily, leaning over to sniff a flower. "You can _not_ imagine what it's like working in a file room all day. I mean, I don't even have a window!"

"If you dislike your job that much, Miss Winslow, then why don't you change your occupation?" queried Roarke curiously.

Maggie peered sheepishly at him over her shoulder and shrugged in self-deprecation. "I've thought of that, but...well, I don't have any _real_ talent." She made a dismissive face and perked up, changing the subject before Roarke could comment any further. "But I do have the movies—they really keep me going." She approached the table and took the one remaining chair. "Especially Burt Hunter movies. Oh, the way he plays that part! You know...I think I have dreamt about being one of Simon Flynn's heroines in every film."

Leslie grinned, noticing Roarke's gentle amusement before he drew in a breath and spoke. "What concerns me, Miss Winslow, is that you seem to have substituted the illusion of films for the reality of your life."

"Maybe," Maggie conceded without rancor, "but I'm happy." Her big brown eyes blinked, like a little girl's. "And I will be even _happier_ when I get to meet Burt. Oh..." She closed her eyes for a second with rapture. "He is my ideal! You know, the kind of man who knows what a woman wants and needs, without—"

"Miss Winslow," Roarke interrupted, "even if that were true, your fantasy will last only for the weekend. When it's over—what then?"

Maggie looked undaunted. "It rains a lot in Oregon," she commented. "I'll go back to the movies, and...well, I _will_ have my memories."

Roarke took that in for a second or two, then seemed to give in. "Very well, then. Will you come with me, please? Mr. Burt Hunter is waiting for us in his bungalow. Leslie, suppose you go on ahead and join Tattoo there?"

She agreed eagerly and jumped to her feet, patting her skirt pocket to make doubly certain her autograph book was safely inside. Starting down the path that led to the bungalows, she overheard Maggie abruptly blurt out, _"What!?"_ and glanced back in time to see her yank Roarke to an unceremonious halt. "Now?"

"But of course, now," Roarke said, clearly astonished, and Leslie snickered to herself, breaking into a run before they could overhear her amusement. She ran all the way there, bypassing the empty bungalow where the Westons had left their luggage and pausing in front of the next-door one, from which she could hear the sounds of a television set pouring out of an open window. She hastened up the steps of the little front porch and let herself in; Tattoo was just crossing the room and looked up when she entered, brightening at sight of her.

"There you are," he said cheerfully. "Mr. Hunter, this is my boss' ward, Leslie Hamilton."

Leslie ventured into the main room and smiled a welcome. "Hi, Mr. Hunter, nice to meet you." He was a tall, trim figure, dressed in white slacks and a black jacket with a red handkerchief in the breast pocket over an open white shirt. A maroon scarf encircled his neck.

Burt Hunter arose and came to shake her hand. "Likewise, Leslie."

"Is it okay if I get your autograph?" she asked before she could lose her nerve. Though by now she had met enough famous people in her time on the island that she was no longer intimidated into total silence by them, she still sometimes found herself feeling guilty about asking for autographs.

"Of course," Hunter said with a broad smile and accepted the book, finding the first blank page and scrawling on it while Tattoo paused at the mini-bar in the corner of the room, mixing up a drink. Hunter handed Leslie the book and nodded when she thanked him. "Sit down somewhere, then." As she did, he addressed the young Frenchman. "You know, it's a tremendous responsibility being a star, Tattoo. I supervise all my own scripts, do most of my own stunts..."

"It must be very dangerous," Tattoo remarked, dropping an ice cube into a glass.

"Sure, but the fans expect it," Hunter said, watching the TV screen as a figure on skis sailed right over the edge of a high, snow-covered clifftop. "Each movie I make has to be more spectacular than the last." He clicked off the set.

Tattoo approached him with the frosty, sweating glass. "Vodka on the rocks, with a twist of lime, no lemon...just like you like it, right?" He offered Hunter the glass.

Hunter smiled indulgently. "Ah, you know your Simon Flynn very well, don't you?"

"Oh, he's my favorite movie star," Tattoo told him, grinning widely. Hunter took a sip of his drink as Tattoo moved to the conversation nook on the other side of the room. "And right over here," he went on, reaching out to a dark screen set into a blue cabinet anchored to the wall, "a TV monitor, just like Simon Flynn."

"That's great, that's great," Hunter remarked, watching. "Front door..." Tattoo worked a knob, and the scene showed a young native couple walking along the lane outside. "Back door..." The scene changed to show empty, sunlit lawn, and Leslie wondered when this had been installed. "That's perfect, just perfect," Hunter praised, popping a cigarillo into his mouth. Leslie couldn't help the face she made, but luckily neither Hunter nor Tattoo noticed.

In fact, Tattoo picked up a flat object wrapped in paper and tied with twine. "The boss wanted me to give you this," he said, handing it to Hunter.

"What is it?" Leslie asked.

"A script," Tattoo said and winked at her.

Hunter aped Tattoo's wink and remarked, "You know, Leslie, I think one of the secrets to my success is that I've gotten to know my character so well." With that, he extracted a golden object from his pocket and flipped some tiny hidden lever with his thumb; a small, sharp blade popped out, making Tattoo jump back in consternation. Leslie snickered, watching Hunter slice the twine away from the package, speaking around the cigarillo. "In the past few years, I have actually become Simon Flynn in real life." So saying, he flicked another hidden lever, and a little flame shot up beside the exposed blade. Tattoo canted forward, gaping with wide, startled eyes, and Leslie covered her lingering grin with one hand. Hunter lit the cigarillo, puffed out some smoke, then lifted the unwrapped package and announced calmly, "That's why I can't read this script. Tattoo," he said, handing it back, "I want you to tell Mr. Roarke thanks, but no thanks."

Tattoo took the script as a phone buzzed from somewhere. Hunter excused himself and opened what appeared to be a briefcase on the small round table beside his chair, reaching inside and picking up a wireless phone receiver. "Hello!"

Tattoo's eyes popped again, and at Leslie's half-stifled giggle he turned to her. "Pretty amazing, huh?" he prompted eagerly.

She let her hand fall and nodded, still grinning. "The American answer to James Bond, with twice as many gadgets," she remarked.

"Yes," Hunter said then, "put him on. My agent," he told Tattoo and Leslie, "from Beverly Hills. Hullo, Max, how are y—?" His face took on a sudden look of consternation. "That's not funny, Max," he said ominously. After a pause, he sat up and scowled. "Whaddya mean, I don't bring in the, the teen market?" Leslie felt her face grow hot with a guilty blush on behalf of all her fellow moviegoing teenagers, and wondered if she was going to take the blame on their behalf as well.

"I don't look a day older than I did ten years ago! Well, what about my contract?" Hunter demanded. He tried to say something a couple of times, then grew angry. "Well, you _do_ something about it! That's what I pay you for!" He cut off the connection with an angry poke at the phone receiver and slammed it back into the briefcase.

Tattoo and Leslie both flinched back, startled. "What happened?" Tattoo asked.

Hunter fell back in his chair, his expression one of disbelief and loss. "The studio wants to replace me with an eighteen-year-old kid," he said, dazed.

More embarrassed than ever, Leslie cleared her throat slightly and hunched into herself: her own eighteenth birthday was a mere two months away, and once more she felt guilty by association. Tattoo spared her one swift glance over his shoulder but said nothing, looking sympathetic.

Hunter got to his feet and began to pace the room. "Are they crazy?" he muttered, agitated. "I know my last movie lost money, but...the script was bad."

There was an odd sound from the corner of the room and Leslie looked around at the monitor Tattoo had left on. "Oops—here comes Mr. Roarke with Maggie Winslow."

Tattoo turned to the monitor; Hunter grunted, "My life is on the line, Leslie; I can't meet that woman now. John Pikes is on Fantasy Island, scouting out sites for the next Simon Flynn picture. I've gotta find him—talk him out of this, this insanity!"

"Maybe if he knew how much Miss Winslow wants to meet you," Tattoo offered, "he would see how popular you still are."

Hunter grunted. "I don't know, Tattoo..." He peered at the image on the monitor. "She's got a nice face, but she's not exactly the type who'd impress John."

Tattoo shrugged. "Well, maybe if you dress her up a little bit...make her look more glamorous." Leslie had to agree with him; she had thought the reason Roarke and Maggie had taken so long to get here was that Maggie had decided to change her clothes, and it was a surprise to see that this wasn't the case. She wondered whether Maggie had argued with Roarke all the way over here.

"It's just that I've never had...to _use_ anyone before," Hunter protested, clearly uncomfortable with the whole idea.

"Just think of it as..." Tattoo threw the monitor a glance. "Survival."

There was a knock on the door, and Tattoo tossed Leslie a glance; she jumped up, shoved the autograph book back into her pocket, and hurried across the floor to open the door to Roarke and Maggie Winslow. "Hi, Mr. Roarke."

"Hello, Leslie," Roarke said with a little smile, leading Maggie inside. Leslie noticed the look of frozen, wide-eyed shock on Maggie's face as he brought her in. She caught Tattoo's interested gaze; he noticed it and shrugged, making her smile.

"Miss Winslow," Roarke said, leading Maggie into the room, "may I present your escort, Mr. Hunter."

Just like that, Hunter turned on the charm, smiling suavely and approaching them as Maggie squealed, "It's him! Oh, Mr. Roarke, it's really him!"

"Miss Winslow," Hunter said, extending a hand. Maggie put hers into it as if to shake, then seemed overwhelmed when he bent down and kissed the back of her hand. Maggie stumbled back and Roarke caught her before she could trip over the step; Tattoo and Leslie grinned at each other, and Maggie let out a silly little giggle, blinking at Hunter.

"Well, suppose we leave you two to get a little better acquainted," Roarke suggested. "Shall we? Leslie, Tattoo...excuse us, please, Mr. Hunter and Miss Winslow." Hunter nodded and smiled graciously at them; Maggie just made a dazed little noise, and on that note Roarke led Leslie and Tattoo out of the bungalow.

"Well, this is gonna be interesting," Leslie commented when they were well enough out of earshot of the bungalow that she felt it was safe to speak.

"I'll say," Tattoo muttered.

"Oh? How so?" Roarke inquired.

Tattoo only grunted, so Leslie took that as permission. "Mr. Hunter got a phone call before you and Maggie got there. His agent told him that the producers of the Simon Flynn movies want to fire him and cast some eighteen-year-old guy in his place because he doesn't attract the teenage audiences anymore." She caught Roarke's surprised look and shrugged. "Don't look at me!"

Roarke's expression indicated that he understood the unspoken implication, and he grinned teasingly at her. "Why not? Aren't you a member of that target audience? Particularly since you will soon be the age of Mr. Hunter's alleged replacement."

Leslie glowered at him. "I'm just one person, thanks very much—and on top of that, I work every weekend anyway, so it's not as if I have scads of time to go out and watch movies." She cleared her throat and shrugged, the guilt suddenly flooding back. "Trouble is, even if I did, I gotta admit my first choice wouldn't be Simon Flynn movies."

"Don't be a traitor, Leslie," Tattoo said, and she rolled her eyes.

Roarke laughed. "Enough, the two of you! Since you are so concerned with Mr. Hunter's welfare, Tattoo, I suggest you monitor Miss Winslow's fantasy this weekend, and lend whatever assistance to Mr. Hunter that you can." Tattoo nodded eagerly and did an about-face, trotting back down the path with purpose to his step.

"What about the Westons?" Leslie asked, falling in beside Roarke as they resumed walking back toward the main house. She noticed Roarke's frown, and made a small scoffing noise. "Don't tell me—you have no jurisdiction on that island. Isn't that kind of like abandoning the Westons to whatever fate the people there decide to give them?"

Roarke shot her a look. "If you'll recall, my dear Leslie, I tried to dissuade them from pursuing this fantasy, but they were extremely singleminded. But if you are that worried, perhaps I'll send you over there to make a discreet little check on them, if you think you can escape the notice of the natives there and avoid being captured for some nefarious purpose."

Leslie rolled her eyes again, managing to miss Roarke's faint, secretive smile. She blew out her breath and grumbled, "Even if wanting eternal youth and eternal life is a bad idea, you can still understand why. After the story they told..." She cleared her throat and shoved her hands into her pockets, encountering the autograph book in one of them and folding her hand absently around it. "I can kind of see why. And you really can't blame me, all things considered."

"Perhaps not," Roarke said, "but you know very well that everything has a limit—fantasies included. And it seems I must remind you once again that when a fantasy gets under way, it is no longer under any kind of control by me. Alex and Diana Weston will have to rely on their own wits and intelligence to escape whatever danger they may encounter on that island." There was nothing Leslie could say to that; she merely gave a reluctant nod or two and trudged along beside him in silence.


	12. Chapter 12

§ § § - March 5, 1983

Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo had an early supper, which Tattoo finished in a hurry before murmuring a hasty excuse to his boss and departing at speed. Roarke and Leslie would have followed, but a native came in from the study advising Roarke that he had a phone call. By the time they were able to leave, Tattoo had already been gone almost half an hour, and Roarke decided it might be a good idea to get an update from Tattoo on Maggie Winslow's fantasy.

They spotted him making rounds of various tables at the open-air dining room that had been built earlier that year. It seemed obvious that he'd been at it for some time, since the dining room was full and the waitstaff were being kept busy. Roarke ushered Leslie in with him and intercepted his assistant on the way to another table, from one whose occupants he had left laughing at some evident _bon mot._ "Excuse me...Tattoo?" Roarke called low. "How is Miss Winslow's fantasy progressing?"

"Fine, boss, fine," Tattoo said, just as Leslie noticed someone waving frantically at her. She focused over Tattoo's shoulder and squinted at the pigtailed girl who sat alone at a small table. Tattoo and Roarke noticed her distraction and watched as she tipped forward, trying to place the girl.

The young lady brightened when she had Leslie's attention. "Hey, you're my babysitter's friend, right?" she said. "She tells me all about you."

"Who's your babysitter?" Leslie asked.

"Lauren McCormick," the girl said. "My name's Christy."

That reminded Leslie of a few horror stories Lauren had told on this girl, and she had to make a bit of an effort to give her smile a friendly cast. "Oh yeah, I've heard of you. What're you doing here, anyway?" The question was meant also to be code for _Where are your parents?_ but if Christy caught that part of it, she chose to ignore it.

Christy shrugged. "Well, I never eat junk food, you know...but today I got this incredible craving for chocolate sundaes."

Leslie studied the pair of tulip-shaped, footed glasses sitting in front of Christy; both were empty and a spoon stuck out of each one. "Two of them, huh?" she said, folding her arms over her chest, while Roarke and Tattoo looked on with amusement.

"Yeah, and I'm still hungry!" Christy's face took on a sorrowful look. "But I already used up all my allowance. You, uh, couldn't float me a loan, could you? I really think I could eat one more."

"Never eat junk food, huh?" Leslie snorted skeptically, and Christy shrugged. Shooting a highly amused Roarke a _get a load of_ _this_ _kid_ look, Leslie said, "Sorry, I don't carry any cash."

"Rats," muttered Christy and turned to Tattoo, only to discover that he was straining to see past several other tables toward a point well across the dining area. "Tattoo, could...Tattoo...what're you looking at?" At this point Roarke and Leslie both followed Tattoo's gaze.

Tattoo, who evidently also knew Christy from somewhere, blinked and focused on her. "Oh, that's Burt Hunter. He's a famous movie star. He's also my best friend." This last came out with a little smirk of pride; Leslie gave him an odd look.

Roarke got a gleam in his eye. "He is? Really?" he inquired with deceptive interest.

"Boss," Tattoo muttered, shooting Christy a look, and Leslie rolled her eyes, at which Roarke chuckled soundlessly.

Christy had been eyeing Hunter's table. "He does look kind of familiar."

Tattoo attempted to jog her memory with, "He plays Double Agent Simon Flynn in the movies."

A crafty look stole over Christy's features. "D'you think you could get his autograph for me?"

"Of course!" Tattoo said expansively. "I can also do better than that. Come on." He rounded Christy's chair to head for Hunter's table, and Christy got up and trailed him over there while Roarke and Leslie watched with interest. The table was some distance away, but most of the conversations were low, and anyway, Christy had the sort of high-pitched voice that tended to carry, whether she intended it to do so or not.

"She knows you?" Roarke asked Leslie, visibly quelling a smile.

"She knows _of_ me," Leslie quantified. "I know of her too—Lauren babysits her a lot." She lowered her voice. "Lauren's told us quite a few tales on that kid. She's a little con artist. You just got the proof, after she tried to hit up me and Tattoo for ice-cream money."

Roarke laughed low. "Indeed."

"Tattoo better be careful that kid doesn't try to cadge money out of Mr. Hunter too," Leslie added, making a face and focusing on the table where Tattoo and Christy had just paused by Hunter's chair. "That other guy must be the director Tattoo and Mr. Hunter were talking about earlier today."

Roarke made a noise of acknowledgment, and they watched as Hunter and Maggie Winslow both smiled at Christy. Hunter shook hands with the girl and said something to her; when Christy replied, her words came clearly to Roarke and Leslie. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Hunter. I don't have an autograph book, but maybe you could sign your name on one of the menus...so I'll always remember where I met you."

"Yeesh," muttered Leslie, noticing Roarke's frown; even Tattoo, she could see by his profile, had begun to look suspicious. Hunter whipped a menu out of a holder in the middle of the table and scribbled on the front, handing it to Christy with a slight flourish. Leslie noticed the director's bored look and began to get a creeping feeling of foreboding about the entire fantasy. And furthermore, where did Maggie Winslow fit into all this?

Christy accepted the menu and chirped in that piercing little voice of hers, "Thanks!" Turning to Tattoo, she added, "The chef is just crazy about Simon Flynn movies. I bet I can trade this for a month of sundaes!" With a calculating grin splitting her face nearly in two, she scampered off, menu in hand.

"Typical," muttered Leslie. "This time I'll get to tell Lauren the horror story on her." She and Roarke both watched Tattoo shift his weight before taking off in Christy's wake.

Then the director stood up, and his voice carried as well, just enough for Roarke and Leslie to hear. "Well, Burtsie, we gotta go." He stepped behind a chair in which a young blonde sat. "So we'll leave you to your 'fans'...all two of 'em." Both he and the woman sneered as she arose, and they took their leave without further ado.

"Wow," Leslie muttered, watching them leave. "What on earth is going on around here?"

"I'm not sure," Roarke said with concern, just as another movement caught their collective attention and they watched Burt Hunter stalk angrily out of the dining area. Roarke arose and wended his way over to the table where Maggie Winslow sat abandoned; Leslie was just a step or two behind. He took a seat beside Maggie while Leslie hovered nearby, looking around for Tattoo or Christy but seeing neither. "Is everything all right, Miss Winslow?" Roarke inquired. "Why did Mr. Hunter leave so abruptly?"

Maggie made a discreet dab at her eyes with the cloth napkin, self-consciously brushing at the front of the chic black pantsuit she was now wearing that flattered her far more than the _faux_ country-girl clothing she had worn on her arrival. "I don't know," she admitted. "Whatever it was, I'm sure it was important, though." She pushed her chair back a little to show off her clothing. "Look—he bought me this beautiful outfit, and spent the whole morning with me..." To Leslie's astonishment, she produced a huge smile. "You've made me very happy, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke's expression was solemn, even slightly annoyed. "Miss Winslow, why don't you try demanding more out of life? Not only of yourself, but of others?" Maggie blinked in that owlish way of hers, and Roarke arose, excusing himself and guiding Leslie out ahead of him with a hand between her shoulder blades.

"This is getting weird," Leslie mused, when they had cleared the dining area. "There's something going on, and I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Tattoo undoubtedly knows more than he's been telling us," Roarke said dryly. "I suggest you ask him."

Leslie frowned. "I will, but it's more of an update. I kind of have a feeling Tattoo's trying to help Mr. Hunter's case by showing off how many fans he still has, except it isn't exactly working."

"So I noticed," said Roarke, still in that dry tone. "And, Tattoo being Tattoo, he'll surely conjure up more schemes to help Mr. Hunter keep the role he's become so famous for." He cast his gaze toward the star-flecked sky and sighed. "Perhaps it wasn't as wise an idea as I had thought to give him charge of this fantasy."

Leslie grinned. "Well, you did, for better or for worse, so I guess you'll just have to wait and see what happens. Maybe you can tell me about those people who live on that little island you sent Alex and Diana Weston to. Do they really have some kind of fountain of youth over there, or something? Where'd they come from? How long have they lived there?"

Roarke chuckled and obliged her. "The leader is a mysterious woman by the name of Maatira. As I understand it, she and a band of refugees arrived here after a years-long journey from what is now Egypt, sailing in a small flotilla of Phoenician reed ships that were little more than oversized rowboats, even as compared to Viking longboats—never mind today's ships. A bare few guests who had searched for the secret of eternal youth had gone there before, but it's been sixty years or more since the last one; I am not certain of the exact length of time. What little knowledge I have of those people, I gleaned from those guests. It's my understanding that Maatira styles herself as the half-sister of the Egyptian pharaoh Nekhthoreb, who fled the country when the Persians invaded in the year 350 BC." He let that sink in, and Leslie pondered it, while they strolled toward the main house. After a moment Roarke went on, "If in fact she truly is Nekhthoreb's half-sister, she is well over 2200 years old—and I suspect that she may be populating her island with her own descendants, impregnating herself through the centuries by various men."

Leslie gave it another moment's thought, then shook her head. "So...you mean she might've taken advantage of guys as they found that island, before you came to this one? Maybe they used to be Egyptian, but she'd have to take what she got—so she'd have seduced migrating Polynesian men for centuries, and maybe then European explorers, and probably sometimes even guys from this island who went out exploring or something, and strayed too far in the wrong direction."

"Very good, Leslie," Roarke said, nodding. "That was my extrapolation as well. However, I believe that all this time Maatira has been looking for a specific someone. Some decades ago, a young man from this island came back from a solo expedition during which he was gone for several weeks. He returned with stories of being seduced by Maatira over and over again, until she became pregnant by him and cast him off. He said, crucially, that she told him he was not the man she was ultimately searching for. When I asked him whether he could explain in more detail, he said she had shown him a stone slab upon which was a likeness of the man she said she was waiting for. He sketched it out for me as best he could." Roarke paused again and released a quiet sigh. "It so happens that the likeness is identical to Alex Weston's features."

Leslie frowned. "Well, okay...so does that mean that if Mr. Weston's the one Maatira's looking for, she'll stop whatever it is she's doing, and just..." She shrugged. "Actually, what is it Maatira wants?"

"Immortality, of course," Roarke said. "How she manages it, I'm not certain. According to legend, there was at one time a clan that had the power to restore life to the dead, provided the death had occurred no more than forty-eight hours previously. Perhaps, in Maatira's early days on that island, one of those clan members was there, and somehow transferred—or attempted to do so at least—his or her power to a small spring-fed pool so that she could take advantage of the power." He shook his head. "I am afraid that's the best theory I can postulate. However, it's now up to Mr. and Mrs. Weston to defeat Maatira, if they mean to survive this weekend; and if they are able to do so, I intend to go in and annex that islet myself. It's as much for the protection of the people living there as for anyone else, and in any case, it's best that word of that little spring not get out."

"Wow," Leslie breathed, overwhelmed. "That's really...I mean, it sounds like legends, you know? What'll you do with that place if the Westons defeat Maatira and you take over?"

Roarke smiled. "I'll merely leave the inhabitants to live as they choose. However, it may be wisest to drain that little pool. We certainly wouldn't want any accidental discoveries—after all, one never knows who the discoverer may be." He winked at her, and she laughed a little reluctantly, wondering if the Westons had enough determination between them to overpower this Maatira.

§ § § - March 6, 1983

It was around ten-thirty, and Roarke and Leslie were in the office tending to the usual paperwork, when the door to the inner foyer swung open and Maggie Winslow stomped in, tears raining from her eyes and her face red with pure disillusionment. She was dressed in the same ill-matched getup she had been wearing upon her arrival. Before either of them could speak, she snapped, "I want to go home, right now! I want this fantasy to end!"

Roarke arose in astonishment. "I beg your pardon, Miss Winslow?"

"That Burt Hunter—he's just like all the other phonies in Hollywood! I don't want anything else to do with him!" Maggie spat, pacing the room.

"Now, I assure you, Miss Winslow, if you will just stay until the weekend is over—" Roarke began.

 _"Stay!"_ screamed Maggie in a rage, spinning around and glaring at him. "Stay for _what?_ My fantasy is a bust!" Leslie had flinched back in her chair and now watched Maggie warily as the woman leaned over the front of Roarke's desk and let her temper rip, while he waited with as much patience as he could muster up. "I mean, I have never been so humiliated in all my life! Look..." She straightened up and lowered her voice, though the strain of trying to act civil was clearly taking its toll. "All I want is my money back so that I can leave here and forget this whole thing ever happened!"

In the face of her insistence, all Roarke could do was nod. "I am truly sorry," he said quietly. "I will write you a check immediately, of course." He sat down and reached for a drawer; Leslie watched, stunned, for she had never seen this occur before. But at the same time there was a knock on the door, and Roarke looked up in surprise, then turned to Leslie. "Would you get that, please? Thank you."

"Sure, Mr. Roarke," Leslie agreed and jumped to her feet, giving Maggie enough of a berth that the woman noticed and quirked a slight smile of apology. Leslie returned it in kind, unwilling to be the focus of whatever else Maggie might say, and hopped the steps into the foyer, pulling open the door and revealing Burt Hunter. He nodded once to her and started forward, making her skip hastily back to keep from being barreled over as he strode inside.

Maggie turned around, spotted him and shrieked, "You! I told you I never wanted to see you again!" Leslie winced, closing the door and lingering in the foyer, too spooked to venture back into the room. She noticed Roarke watching, and half hugged the post beside the steps, looking on. Meantime, Maggie shouted, "I swear, Mr. Roarke, if you don't either give me my fantasy or make him leave, I'll _sue_ you!" Leslie gasped.

"Mr. Roarke," Hunter said calmly, as if Maggie hadn't said a word, "if you don't mind, could you leave us alone for a few minutes?"

"Oh, certainly," Roarke agreed cordially, rising again while Maggie's face morphed into pure outrage. "I have other matters to attend to anyway. Feel free to use my office as long as you wish. Will you excuse me? Leslie, come along."

Again she traced a wide circle around the infuriated Maggie as she hurried down into the office and across the room, joining Roarke at the French shutters and accompanying him out. They heard Maggie shout something at Hunter, just as they reached the edge of the terrace and gained the path going toward town, and Leslie winced. "Mr. Roarke, I'm not sure you should've left the office to them. I mean, when we get back, you might find the place completely trashed."

Roarke laughed. "Is that so? I grant you Miss Winslow is angry, but I don't believe she's angry enough to take it out on her surroundings. Now I have a suggestion for you: come with me to the little pool where we saw the Westons off yesterday, and I think I may be able to show you what's happening on that island, if everything is in place and working as it properly should."

"Well, this oughta be interesting," Leslie said, grinning in anticipation. "I just hope it's not too discouraging. How much will we be able to see?"

"I can't say for certain," Roarke admitted. "As I said, it depends on whether everything is working right. If we hurry, we'll find out sooner."

It took them about ten minutes to reach the pool in question, making their way down the path that led from the terrace to the Ring Road and then crossing, walking about a quarter of a mile and traversing a one-lane bridge over an inlet before the road curved inland. A thicket of trees and underbrush had taken over between the pavement and the cliff falling into the Pacific, and it was here that Roarke led Leslie to the small shrouded pool where the Westons had been launched into their fantasy. The little waterfall Leslie remembered from the day before still hurtled over a low rock outcropping with some force, creating a boiling mass of bubbles in the middle of the pool.

Roarke knelt near the steeply jutting rocks that had provided a makeshift stairway for Alex and Diana to enter the pool the previous morning and raised his left hand, palm down and fingers relaxed, waving it slowly over the pool three or four times while Leslie crouched beside him and watched. He lowered his hand and waited, intently studying the water's roiling surface; and in another few seconds, the water seemed to lighten and calm a bit, revealing a scene that looked to Leslie like an amalgam of Greek, Roman and Egyptian elements: ruined temples with gold-painted columns; several men milling around wearing togas; a low table with a divan on either side; and a couple of sphinxlike figures each about two feet in height and five feet or so in length. As they watched, the water shimmered, rippling the scene, and it changed to a tall rock with a sheer face, against which they could see Diana Weston chained and struggling. Another sphinx figure on a four-foot pedestal rested in front of her; she was clad in a white toga with gold Greek-design trim, and there was some sort of gold headband in her hair. A man dressed in what appeared to be primarily Roman-style garb entered from a crude door-shaped hole to Diana's left and wandered leisurely over in front of her.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Diana cried, straining against the chains attached to heavy iron bracelets around her wrists. "Haven't you ever loved anyone?"

The man stopped short and whirled to stare at her. "Yes," he said, low and fierce. "Maatira, with all my soul."

"Oh, help us get out of here," Diana begged, her words half unintelligible in her desperation. "Take us back to the pool and we'll leave!"

"How?" the man asked, sounding more skeptical than anything else.

"The same way we came," Diana said breathlessly. "Look, I can't explain it to you now, but can't you see—without Alex here, you'd have Maatira all to yourself!"

The man hesitated a moment, as if she were getting through to him; but before he had a chance to ponder very far, a high-pitched horn sounded, and another blonde woman emerged from a stone temple surrounded by men clad in metal armor and bearing round Viking-type shields. This woman carried herself with a regal mien and a confidence that stated she was in charge, and Leslie realized this must be Maatira. She and Roarke exchanged a glance; his was unreadable, but Leslie had to admit to surprise. The way her guardian had described Maatira the previous evening, she had expected the woman to be dark and dressed rather like Cleopatra. Instead, Maatira looked decidedly Nordic, much the same way Diana Weston did.

Maatira strolled over to the rock face where Diana was chained, lifting a goblet off a small tray borne by a soldier along the way. The man lowered himself to one knee in deference, while Maatira took in the scene. At some length she ordered quietly, "Unchain this woman, Ra-Mas."

The kneeling man arose. Diana demanded, "Where is Alex?" in a tone that betrayed as much fear and worry as bravado.

"Waiting," said Maatira carelessly as Ra-Mas began to unlock Diana's chains. "Resting."

"I want to see him," Diana insisted. She watched Ra-Mas release her second chain, then jumped down to confront Maatira, repeating her demand.

"No," said Maatira flatly, her voice cold. "You came here to rob me of my secret—and now you must pay."

Diana's entire body radiated desperation and terrified pleading. "Keep your secrets—just let us go!" she wailed, her voice nearly breaking.

"The price of immortality is high," Maatira remarked, almost gently, nodding once at Diana.

"Please," came Diana's shaking whisper.

Maatira smiled slightly. "Because I am merciful, only one of you has to die." She paused, as if for effect, while Diana stared intently at her and Ra-Mas watched from behind her. Then Maatira raised the goblet and said icily, "Either you drink this poisoned wine, or you watch while Alex does."

Diana was on the edge of tears. "If...if I do, what will happen to Alex?"

Maatira lit. "Your sacrifice will bring him eternal life," she crooned. Diana hovered with indecision; Ra-Mas tensed, and Maatira half singsonged, "Choose."

She extended the goblet to Diana, who slowly accepted it. The two women watched each other; Leslie bit her lip, only half aware of the building ache in her legs as she crouched on the lip of the pool with both hands curled around the edge. Beside her, Roarke gazed intently on, dark eyes narrowed. As they waited, unable to intervene in any way, Diana stared into the goblet, then began slowly to lift it to her lips, her face beginning to crumple as if she were about to burst into tears.

"No!" they heard Ra-Mas blurt in a horrified sort of whispered yell from behind Diana.

But under Maatira's threatening glare, Diana raised the goblet, hand shaking uncontrollably, and drained its contents, then began to cough and sway alarmingly where she stood. Maatira's face split into a triumphant little smile as Diana stumbled backward, then collapsed lifelessly. The goblet fell from her hand and rolled across the sand a few inches, spilling out a last few drops of something dark and ominous-looking that stained the sand.

The scene rippled and wavered abruptly, then dissolved into the water, and Leslie tried to get up, but lost her balance and nearly fell into the pool. Roarke grasped her arm and steadied her, helping her back to her feet. She turned to him. "Is she actually dead, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke cast a grim glance toward the pool, then nodded without a word. "I'm afraid so, Leslie. And before you ask—despite my own powers, as I have repeatedly reminded you, the fantasy is beyond my control. There is nothing I can do: it's in Alex Weston's hands now." He let that sink in; when he saw the reluctant acceptance in his ward's features, he patted her shoulder. "Don't give up hope yet, my child. We'd better get back; I need to speak with Tattoo."

They found him with Burt Hunter in the actor's bungalow; Hunter had a drink in one hand, and Tattoo looked glum. They both looked up when Roarke and Leslie came in. "What happened at the main house?" Leslie asked. "I mean, when you tried to talk to Miss Winslow?"

Hunter shrugged. "Nothing good, I have to tell you. She called me some names, told me what a lying phony I was, then slapped me and walked right out. I guess I blew it."

"I must concur," Roarke said, folding his arms across his chest. "I now must deal with one extremely dissatisfied guest, which might never have happened had it not been for your duplicity."

"Don't blame Mr. Hunter, boss," Tattoo spoke up then, a hangdog look seemingly lengthening his round face into an oval. "It was my idea. I only wanted to help."

"Unfortunately, that doesn't solve the problem at hand," Roarke informed him sternly. "Miss Winslow has demanded that I either fulfill her fantasy somehow, or repay her fee. I'm afraid if you don't comply, she will sue Fantasy Island—and you, Mr. Hunter, might become involved in a countersuit."

Hunter rattled the ice cubes in his glass and muttered at them, "That's all I'd need. The studio would use that as an excuse to get rid of me for good." He tilted the glass back and forth, swishing the last bit of drink remaining in the bottom, then looked up. "Besides, she's right, and you are too. I did use her, and I feel like a rat." He closed his eyes, then stiffened with resolve. "Okay, I'll do it. After all, if it weren't for you, Mr. Roarke, I wouldn't have a career at all."

Tattoo and Leslie gaped at each other; then she exclaimed, "You mean, Mr. Roarke got you started in acting?"

Hunter smiled. "That's right, Leslie. I came here with a fantasy of my own—to get a screen test to play a new character called Simon Flynn. That was a few years ago." The smile got wry and he tossed a sidelong glance in Tattoo's direction as the Frenchman reacted, impressed.

"More than a few, my friend," Roarke said gently. "More like fifteen."

Hunter groaned, "Don't remind me. Look—you just tell Maggie that whatever she wants, she gets—and that's a promise."

Roarke frowned a little and tipped forward. "You're very certain, Mr. Hunter?"

"Don't try to talk me out of it. I've felt lousy about it all weekend, but I was desperate. But I can't live with myself if I don't try to make amends. So don't say any more."

"Very well," Roarke conceded with a touch of reluctance. "Then we'll leave you to it. Leslie, Tattoo—come with me. Excuse us, please." Hunter nodded, and the trio took their leave.

At the main house, Roarke called Maggie Winslow and, after some ten minutes of fast talking that made Tattoo and Leslie exchange more than one disbelieving look, managed to convince her to meet with Burt Hunter one last time. When he had hung up, he blew out a breath and shook his head.

"That sounded really tough, boss," Tattoo understated sympathetically.

"Earlier I suggested to Miss Winslow that she demand more from life and from those around her," Roarke said ruefully. "I am afraid I failed to anticipate the possibility that she would begin by demanding more from _me."_ Tattoo's eyes widened; he and Leslie looked at each other again, and then they both began to snicker helplessly. Roarke gave them both a look, then joined in with his own reluctant chuckling.

Roarke made a few more calls—one of them to Burt Hunter to inform him of Maggie's agreement to see him again—and then sent Tattoo on a few rounds. "I think it's best I check up on Mr. Weston," he mused, consulting his gold pocket watch. "There's enough time before Mr. Hunter is to meet Miss Winslow. Perhaps you'd like to come with me, Leslie?"

"Suits me," she agreed. "Maybe we can tell him what happened to his wife, and he can do something about it."

"We shall see," Roarke said. "Before we go, come in here; we have some costumes to choose."

Within fifteen minutes Leslie found herself clad much as Diana Weston had been, in a snowy-white toga that hung off one shoulder and was trimmed with a Greek interlocking-square design in gold along the top edge and the hem. There was a thin gold braided band holding back her long straight hair, and she sported clip-on chandelier earrings of gold mesh that were heavy enough to pull on her earlobes. On her feet she wore a pair of Roman-type lace-up sandals. Roarke, on the other hand, was dressed Egyptian-style, in an ankle-length white garment with a multicolored cloth belt tied around his waist, and a patterned robe over that. Atop his head was a cloth-of-gold Egyptian headdress anchored with a wide dark-red band that matched one of the colors running through the belt; and he wore sandals much like Leslie's. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"I guess," she said with some trepidation, peering at the toga's hem which ended about an inch above her knees. "But please, Mr. Roarke, tell me we don't have to get there the same way the Westons did. There's no way I could swim all the way to that little island!"

Roarke laughed. "Don't fear, Leslie, we're not using that method, I assure you. Take my hand and close your eyes, and I'll let you know when we've arrived."

She let out a relieved sigh. "Oh, good. I mean, it makes me a little queasy, but it beats heck out of trying to swim." She snickered at his grin and tucked her hand into his, then closed her eyes and tried to make herself relax.

"We are here," Roarke murmured, far before she had expected him to, and opened her eyes to see that it was late afternoon by now. The surrounding stone temples and monoliths, as well as the trees beyond them, blocked out enough sun to dim the area considerably; there were scattered torches burning to provide some light. The place was deserted except for a lone man standing still and staring at an easel bearing a detailed drawing of what looked like an Egyptian city. He was clad in a cloth-of-gold headdress exactly like Roarke's, and what appeared to be a sleeveless red dress with a skirt the same length as Leslie's. A wide gold-and-blue block-design collar encircled his neck.

Roarke leaned to Leslie and murmured, "Stay behind me, my child, as if you were a servant. You need not speak; in fact, it's best that you don't, so that we don't attract Maatira's attention." She nodded wordlessly, and he smiled with approval and crossed a sort of raised stone terrace. She fell in behind him. On the far side was an opening in the low wall ringing the terrace; Roarke stepped down from it, and the waiting man turned to watch.

"Has Maatira sent you?" he asked. "Is it time?"

Roarke stopped short and stared at him, and Leslie realized at the same time he did that there was no recognition at all in the man's eyes. She hovered close behind her guardian as he approached Alex Weston, who watched him with a closed expression. "Mr. Weston, don't you know who I am?"

"No," said Alex coolly, without hesitation. Roarke did not flinch nor break his stare, and after a few seconds Alex backtracked a little. "Uh...well, you seem familiar somehow, but..."

"What about your wife, Diana?" Leslie couldn't keep from asking, from behind him.

Luckily for her, Roarke didn't react, merely inquired, "Where is she, Mr. Weston?"

"I'm going to marry Maatira," Alex declared belligerently.

Without reacting, Roarke reached into the patterned robe he wore over the long white tunic and withdrew something. "Perhaps this will help," he suggested, displaying a plain gold band at the man. "Look at it, Mr. Weston."

Frowning with perplexity, Alex took the ring and squinted at it. "Now look at the ring on your own finger," Roarke suggested.

Still frowning, Alex lifted his left hand, eyed the gold band on the third finger and stripped it off, comparing them. "They're identical." He peered at Roarke. "I...I don't understand."

Roarke took a step closer to him and explained carefully, "The queen has been using the jewel in her necklace to hypnotize you. Now, try to remember, Mr. Weston...remember? Diana, and the great love between you...remember before it's too late."

Leslie found herself somewhat glad that she couldn't see her guardian's face: she was familiar with Roarke's own brand of hypnotism, and she knew he was using it now on Alex Weston, trying to draw the man back from Maatira's influence. She watched Alex's expression change in small increments, crossing her fingers behind her back; once she swept a nervous scan around them, hoping no one would discover them here before Roarke could pull Alex out from under Maatira's spell.

Alex turned away and paced a few steps to the side, peering at the rings. His headdress fell forward and mostly obscured his face, but they could tell all the same when the memory returned to him. He stopped where he stood, lifted his head, and mumbled softly, "Diana...what happened to her?"

At that Roarke turned to Leslie, smiled and nodded, extending his hand; she instantly read his intent and took it without hesitating, slamming her eyes closed. She thought she heard Alex Weston start to cry out, but the sound was cut off before she was really sure; and at the same time she felt the change of surface beneath her feet. Opening her eyes, she found them standing in Roarke's study.

"Do you think it worked?" she asked.

"I know it did," Roarke said and smiled. "Now Mrs. Weston may have a chance." He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Well done, Leslie."

"But I talked, when you told me not to," she protested guiltily.

"This once," he teased, "I'll let it go, for I was about to ask the very question you posed to Mr. Weston anyhow." He chuckled at her relieved, sheepish grin. "Go ahead and get changed; I want to make sure Miss Winslow keeps her appointment with Mr. Hunter."


	13. Chapter 13

§ § § - March 6, 1983

There were about ten minutes remaining before Maggie and Hunter were supposed to meet, when Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie went to the pool and found Maggie alone at a table, clad in a diaphanous pale-pink sundress over a deeper-pink one-piece swimsuit. As they approached her, she checked her watch, then scanned the perimeter of the pool, scowling.

"You don't look very happy, Miss Winslow," Tattoo observed, catching her attention.

"Haven't we arranged things to your satisfaction?" Roarke inquired.

Maggie glared at them, encompassing a nervous Leslie in her gaze. "Everything's fine," she told them in a clipped voice. "At least, it _will_ be, in just a little while longer."

"Then I hope you enjoy your date," Leslie ventured, trying to be conciliatory.

"I'm not here for a date, young lady," Maggie informed her. "I'm here for justice."

Tattoo backed off a step. "Justice?"

"For once, Burt Hunter is going to know what it's like to be humiliated. I've done a little homework on him."

Roarke eyed her with a frown. "Are you quite certain that's what you really want?"

"You bet I am," Maggie said hotly, "and don't try to stop me. Remember, this is my fantasy!"

Roarke gave in, but only with reluctance. Gravely he conceded, "Very well, but I hope you'll understand if I say we have no wish to be a part of it." He gestured to Tattoo and Leslie, who preceded him along the side of the pool, wandering toward the bar in the corner.

They heard murmurings behind them; Leslie turned to see what was happening while Roarke and Tattoo conferred for a moment with the bartender. Burt Hunter, dressed in the same suave outfit she had first seen him in the day before, sauntered slowly over to Maggie's table while she watched him approach. All around them, guests spotted Hunter and pointed him out to one another, admiring looks blooming across their faces. He sat down, and for several minutes they exchanged words; then Maggie seemed to wilt and turned away from him, brushing at one cheek. He leaned over, cupped her face in one hand, and asked her something; Leslie was able to read his lips as he said, "What's wrong, Maggie?"

By now Roarke and Tattoo were watching as intently as she was, waiting to see what the outcome would be. Maggie mumbled to Hunter, then hung her head; he sat for a moment and eyed her, then pushed back his chair and got to his feet, raising his voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, you all know who I am..." Smiles and light applause greeted him.

Maggie looked horrified. "Burt, don't!" she cried.

He muttered something to her, then took in the entire gathering and spoke up again. "I've always had a lot of respect for my fans...which is why I think you deserve to know the truth about me. For the last few years I've been trying to fool you. Well, the only fool I see around here is _me._ My father was a plumber, not a ship's captain; I'm no Boston blueblood, just a kid from the Bronx who took some voice lessons and got lucky. I haven't done my own stunts in over two years. I'm fifty-two, not forty-three—and I'm tired of living a lie."

Gasps went up all around the pool—including from Tattoo—and people began to mumble to one another. Hunter gave Maggie a sad little smile, squeezed her hand, and left the pool alone, without looking back. Maggie gawked after him, frozen in place.

Roarke released a sigh and returned to her table, with Tattoo and Leslie trailing behind him as always. "Well, Miss Winslow, are you satisfied?" he asked without inflection.

Maggie turned wide, stunned eyes on him. "Mr. Roarke, I didn't go through with it," she protested, her voice faint with shock. "I couldn't. I...I don't understand."

Roarke considered that, then mused, "Perhaps that was Mr. Hunter's way of announcing an early retirement. He really should give up the Simon Flynn character. It was created for a much younger man."

"But he shouldn't give up acting," Maggie exclaimed. "He's too good. There must be lots of other parts he could play!"

Roarke regarded her, glanced at Leslie and Tattoo, then smiled thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact, I have a script in my office with a part in it that would be perfect for him. But I haven't been able to get him to even look at it."

Maggie bit her lip, then slowly got up and clasped her hands in front of her waist, her face filled with hope and entreaty. "Mr. Roarke...would you let _me_ try?"

"Why not, boss?" Tattoo blurted excitedly. "Maybe he'd listen to her, since he won't pay any attention to you!"

Roarke threw him a dirty look and he shrugged a little sheepishly, while Leslie snickered to herself. But when Roarke turned back to Maggie, he was all smiles. "By all means, Miss Winslow."

‡ ‡ ‡

Shortly after supper, Tattoo caught Leslie as she was about to follow Roarke back into the house. "Hey, Leslie, wait. I had this idea, and I think you could help me. You remember Christy, from yesterday?"

Leslie snorted. "How could I forget?"

Tattoo peered at her and said curiously, "You sound like you know her or something. Do you?"

"Lauren's her babysitter. Christy doesn't actually live on this island. Her dad's career Air Force and they've been stationed on Coral Island for the last three or four years. Lauren said she kind of got suckered into sitting for the kid. Christy's parents went through every teenager on the base; they'd sit for the kid once and refuse to do it ever again. I guess her parents found a notice Lauren put up in town about babysitting—Lauren was fed up with being stuck with her own brother and sister all the time and wanted to try earning some more money—and got in touch with her. Lauren told us later she was like the rest of the kids who babysat Christy—she didn't want to go back, but Christy's parents were so desperate by then that they offered Lauren ten dollars an hour for future babysitting gigs. It was too much for her to resist, so she ended up becoming Christy's sitter."

Tattoo had goggled when Leslie quoted Lauren's pay rate. "That's twice the minimum wage! She's really got a thing going, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, well, Lauren says she really earns it, and after seeing Christy yesterday, I can see she wasn't kidding. So anyway...what's your idea?"

"Oh, yeah, right." Tattoo cleared his throat. "I think Christy owes Mr. Hunter something, after that little stunt she pulled with the autograph yesterday. Her mother and father are having a weekend off here, and she's been running around the place like she owns it. It's time to teach her a little humility, I think." He chuckled at Leslie's anticipatory grin. "Come with me, and you can help me put her back in line."

It didn't take them long to find Christy at the pool, apparently talking a group of visiting kids out of their beach ball. Leslie, rolling her eyes, strode up to the girl and gave one of her ponytails a solid yank. "Hey, you, leave these poor kids alone. Tattoo and I want to talk to you."

Christy stared at her, started to say something, then noticed Tattoo regarding her with a stern look on his face. She sighed and gave up. "Okay, what do you want to talk about?"

"What you did to Mr. Hunter," Tattoo said, and with some help from Leslie, proceeded to explain to Christy about Burt Hunter's campaign to keep from losing the role of Simon Flynn.

Leslie took over then, filling Christy in on Hunter's public confession earlier that day at the pool, and concluded, "So this is what's going on. He's gonna lose that part, and he was worried enough about that. Then you trip on over to him, ask for his autograph, and then announce in front of half the island that you're going to trade it in for a bunch of ice-cream sundaes." She leaned over and glared at the startled Christy. "Did you ever stop to think how mean that really was? Think about it—what if you were famous and some loudmouthed little brat came up and did that to you? I bet you'd be pretty upset. At the very least, your feelings would be hurt."

Christy, blinking and recoiling back slightly, looked at Tattoo as if in search of support, but it was plain from Tattoo's stance and expression that he agreed with Leslie. A few beats passed before she cleared her throat and began to redden with embarrassment—which, frankly, surprised Leslie, who had thought she had no shame. _Wait'll I tell Lauren,_ she couldn't help thinking. Christy shifted her weight, peered at Tattoo and then at Leslie, and asked meekly, "What do you want me to do?"

Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other. "Did you have something in mind, Tattoo?" she asked.

"I think maybe she should help us find some flowers to give to Miss Winslow, so she can give them to Mr. Hunter," Tattoo decided. "And she can help us pay for them too."

"But I don't have any more allowance," Christy protested.

"Like heck you don't," Leslie shot back, glad all of a sudden that she had volunteered for luau duty the previous evening. "I saw you at the luau last night, bugging your parents for cash, and I saw your father hand you a whole wad. You're practically rich, kid, and flowers don't come cheap. If I can chip in for some, then so can you."

"Okay, okay," grumbled Christy, eyeing Leslie with a grudging respect. "I thought Lauren was strict, but you're even worse. I'm sure glad _you_ aren't my babysitter."

"No gladder than I am," Leslie assured her with a saccharine smile. "Come on, let's go check out the flower shops in town. I'm sure we can find something just right."

Half an hour later, after dark had fallen and they had chosen a huge bouquet, Tattoo lagged behind Christy, who was lugging the roses while Leslie kept a sharp eye on her. "Hey, Leslie," he said low, "how'd you manage to make her feel guilty about the autograph?"

Leslie smirked and confided, "I just pretended she was my sister Kelly, and gave her the same reaming I'd have given Kelly. Because unfortunately, that's the sort of thing Kelly might've done, once upon a time." Tattoo snorted with amusement, and Leslie grinned back, falling into step just behind Christy once more.

After a little more walking, they emerged onto the lane where the bungalows were located, and Leslie spotted something on Burt Hunter's bungalow's porch. "Look, there they are. Come on, hurry." Tattoo and Christy both had to run to keep up, but the slaps of their shoes on the dirt attracted Roarke's and Maggie's attention, and they both turned around to watch the newcomers.

"Miss Winslow, this is Christy," Tattoo said, gesturing to the girl.

Maggie lit up. "Oh, I remember you. You were the little girl who asked for Burt's autograph yesterday at lunch."

"Right," Christy said, a sly expression on her face and a suggestive tone in her voice, "and you're his girlfriend, aren't you?" Leslie shot Christy a sharp glare, which resulted only in a mildly sheepish smile from the girl.

The byplay seemed to sail right past Maggie. "Oh, well, just now I'm trying to be his...friend." She tossed Roarke a nervous grin.

"What occasion merits the flowers?" Roarke inquired.

Leslie cleared her throat. "Tattoo and I explained to Christy what happened, and we thought maybe the flowers would help." She aimed another hard stare at Christy, who extended the roses.

"Oh, are these for me?" Maggie asked in surprise, reaching out for them.

"They're for Mr. Hunter," Christy corrected her self-importantly, but relinquished the flowers at a double-barreled glare from both Leslie and Tattoo. Roarke, Leslie noticed, was having a hard time tamping down his amusement.

"That's a lovely idea," Maggie said, still apparently unaware of all the undercurrents between the threesome. "Whatever made you think of it?"

Christy opened her mouth, but Leslie beat her to it. "It was actually Tattoo's idea. Besides, Mr. Roarke, I've heard you say before that beautiful things make beautiful feelings happen." Roarke gave her a surprised look, and she hitched a shoulder, grinning back.

"I hope it's okay to give flowers to a guy," Christy put in then, sounding genuinely concerned.

"I'd say it's immensely okay," Roarke remarked. "Of course, there's really only one way to find out..." He shifted his gaze to Maggie. "Isn't there?"

Maggie's face took on a faintly terrified look. "Uh...yeah," she mumbled, eyes wide.

"Good luck," Christy said, then turned to Tattoo. "Come on, Tattoo, I've still got a quarter. I'll flip you for treats on a soda."

"Oh, good—let's go," Tattoo agreed, and with that he and Christy left, leaving Leslie behind with Roarke. Maggie started to say something, and Roarke seemed to catch himself, then called after them, "Wait for me. Uh, Leslie, aren't you coming? You don't want to miss out, I'm sure!"

"Oh no, of course not," Leslie blurted. "Best of luck, Miss Winslow!" So saying, she clattered off the porch behind Roarke, and they caught up with Tattoo and Christy.

By the time darkness fell and they were preparing to go out to the veranda for the evening meal, Tattoo had admittedly made three bets with Christy for sodas, and lost every time, which meant that he was out of pocket change and had no appetite left. "I'll take a sandwich home for later," he said, abashed. "I just thought the law of averages would let me win at least once..."

"I put more stock in Murphy's Law, myself," Leslie told him.

Roarke laughed at that. "All right, Tattoo, but perhaps this will be another little lesson for you. Shall we—" He had just stood up when someone knocked, and before either Leslie or Tattoo could go to the door, it opened and Maggie Winslow ventured inside. Roarke straightened with interest. "Ah, Miss Winslow! What can we do for you?"

Maggie stepped down into the study, clutching something in one hand. "I tried, Mr. Roarke. I gave it my best shot—but he just won't do it." She laid a movie script on the desk. "He...he did propose to me, though—" She grinned foolishly at their congratulations, murmuring thanks. "Anyway, he just wants to quit show business entirely and travel with me. Which is great, but..." She shrugged. "I tried so hard to get him to look at the script, but he said he didn't want to play someone's father all the time from now on."

Roarke regarded the script for a moment or two, then shook his head once or twice. "Well, if Mr. Hunter refuses to read the script, I guess there is nothing else we can do, Miss Winslow," he said with gentle resignation.

"Oh, but—but there is," Maggie insisted. "We have got to convince that director to cast Burt as Simon Flynn again!"

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie looked at one another, and Tattoo asked, "How can that help now?"

"Well, look...if Burt marries me now, I don't want it to be because he thinks he's a has-been!" She settled back, her voice softening. "I don't want him to settle for second-best. I've done that all my life."

Roarke frowned a little, settling on the edge of the desk. "If I do what you ask, Miss Winslow, you might lose him."

"It's a chance I'm willing to take," Maggie said quietly, sitting back. "Mr. Roarke, please...just make him look like a hero, one more time?"

Roarke acceded with a small smile. "Very well. Why don't you take him to the antique-car show tonight? Around ten...that should give us enough time to prepare." Maggie looked a little startled; Tattoo and Leslie exchanged glances, both wondering what under the sun Roarke was up to.

"Okay," Maggie said then, standing. "I'll leave it in your hands, Mr. Roarke." She gave him a little wave, then scurried out.

"Oh great," Leslie said through a sigh. "Does this plan of yours mean we'll have to skip supper? I'm really hungry, and I was looking forward to seeing Mana'olana's reaction to that announcement."

Roarke and Tattoo both laughed. "No, we won't have to skip the meal," Roarke assured her. "We have quite enough time; it's not much past six, and I don't believe my plan will require more than an hour or so to set up. Now let's go and see what's on the menu, shall we?"

After the meal, Roarke and Leslie took a rover back down to the little pool and paused at its lip once more; the moon, flirting with clouds in a hurry to get somewhere else, provided fitful illumination on the scene. But Roarke needed no more than that to extend one arm, as he had done earlier, and make several sweeping motions through the air as if to smooth over the bubbling surface of the water. As though looking up from beneath, Leslie saw Alex Weston standing in the pool with his wife in his arms; Diana was staring down while the voice of Maatira shrieked in the background. "Alex, look—look at the pool!"

Both Westons made eye contact with Roarke, who informed them, "Mr. and Mrs. Weston, your fantasy is over. Dive into the water, quickly." His voice seemed to echo slightly, as Diana's had done a few seconds before. Their images faded then, and Roarke arose, stepping back from the edge of the pool and watching the water. Within ten seconds, up popped the Westons, slicking hair back from their faces and clearing water out of their eyes. They looked around, spied Roarke and Leslie waiting on the edge of the pool, and both let out delighted cries of relief.

"Mr. Roarke, Leslie...you have no idea how good it is to see you both," Alex exclaimed, out of breath, climbing up the steep rock steps from the water. Roarke handed him a beach towel; Leslie gave a second one to Diana, who thanked her and wrapped herself in it with a little shiver.

"Are you okay?" Leslie asked. "What happened?"

"You showed up at just the right moment," Alex said to Roarke, while Diana mopped water off her face. "Ra-Mas, the guy who really loved Maatira...well, he helped us out. He brought Diana to me, and said that if I took her into the water, I could bring her back to life—but we'd forfeit the immortality Maatira had promised." He gazed at Diana over his shoulder. "It wasn't even a choice. Living for a finite time with Diana, or living forever without her—there was just no contest." Diana's eyes sparkled as she gazed back at him.

"What happened to Maatira?" Leslie persisted.

"I didn't see much," Diana explained to her, "but I did notice that something must have happened that finally killed her. All I saw was her robes on the ground...around a dried-up old skeleton."

Alex nodded. "She had to get into the pool of Osiris before the fires went out, but she didn't make it. Ra-Mas must have mobilized her soldiers somehow. They prevented her from getting to the pool, and she finally died, like she should've done thousands of years ago."

"Wow," Leslie murmured. She noticed Roarke's expectant look, and pulled her mind back to the moment. "Well, anyway, I bet you'd like to go back to your bungalow and have some quiet time alone together. Your stuff is all still there, and you can dry off there, and order room service if you want—it'll be available till eleven tonight."

Alex and Diana both grinned at her. "That sounds perfect," Diana agreed. "Thank you, Leslie."

They dropped off the Westons at their bungalow, and only then did Roarke turn to her. "Nicely done, Leslie," he said approvingly. "You'll make a good hostess."

"I've had a few years of practice," she reminded him and grinned. "So...what about this grand plan you have to make Burt Hunter look like a hero?"

Roarke's faint smile was that mysterious one that so often irritated her. "That's our next project. Very simple, as I told you. I have a few people to speak with."

‡ ‡ ‡

It was shortly after ten, and though Leslie had school the next morning, she had been allowed to remain with Roarke and Tattoo to see whether the plan would work out. They were hanging around a huge black vintage auto that gleamed in the intermittent moonlight, pretending great interest in it when any of the sparse attendees at this hour happened to peer in their direction. For a while they had a genuine distraction when Tattoo suggested that Roarke, who he figured must have the keys to all the cars, open this one up and let him and Leslie sit inside it for a bit, just to see what it felt like. Roarke spent almost five minutes explaining to a disbelieving Tattoo that it was the cars' owners, and not he, who held the keys, and then found himself refusing to mentally jimmy the locks when Tattoo brought up that idea. It had almost devolved into an argument when Leslie spied, from the corner of her eye, Burt Hunter and Maggie Winslow meandering among the cars not too far away.

"They're here," she hissed, cutting off Tattoo in the middle of a word. "Shush!"

Roarke nodded, gave Tattoo a quelling look, and flexed his knees enough to conceal himself behind the car. On the other side, Burt stopped and leaned against it; Roarke and Leslie could see him through the windows from their side, and Tattoo braced himself against the door, standing on his toes and just managing to get a glimpse of the actor. Hunter asked, "Okay, Maggie...when do I get an answer?"

Maggie leaned against a pale-pink convertible across from him. "Soon, I hope."

Roarke, crouching down a little lower, made a gesture into the trees, and somewhere out of their view, an engine revved up. A few seconds later a large motorcycle glided past them, bearing two muscular guys in leather pants, tees, sleeveless denim jackets, and heavy boots. One swung off the bike, brandishing a chain with a small billy club on each end. Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo watched avidly as Hunter and Maggie both went on alert, staring at the guy as he approached them. "Now take it easy, Mr. Hunter, and nobody gets hurt," he said, while his accomplice paused just behind him. "You're gonna go with us."

Hunter looked highly amused. "Come on, will you, guys? Now buzz off, it's not a good time for gags." He turned to Maggie, who looked doubtful and alarmed. "It's my director...practical joke."

In one swift motion, the first thug wrapped his chain around Hunter's neck, while at the same time the other grabbed Maggie, who let out a shriek, and yanked her aside. The first thug glared at Hunter and growled, "This ain't no joke, superstar. We figure the studio'll pay big bucks to get you back. Now you move, or we rough up the lady." The second thug gave Maggie a couple of shakes for emphasis, causing Maggie's eyes and mouth to pop wide open with terror.

For a second Hunter appeared to be about to comply; then, abruptly, he swung up one foot and gave the first thug a solid kick in a strategic place that made even Leslie wince and elicited a gasp of sympathetic agony from Tattoo. Hunter didn't even wait for the guy to go down before delivering the same treatment to the second one, in the same spot; he released Maggie, who fell against the pink convertible, while Tattoo flinched and squeezed his eyes shut. Maggie regained her footing, and Hunter caught her, eyes on the two thugs, who scrambled back to their feet. "Maggie, go get Mr. Roarke. Tell him to call the police." Maggie scrambled away, so worked up that she failed to see Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo crouching behind the car. They looked at one another, then crept hastily away, secreting themselves behind another vehicle a bit farther from the action.

"No sweat, man," the first thug said. "You're the one we want." He signaled at his friend behind him. "At him!"

Hunter was forced to defend himself from the second thug while the half-dozen or so others who were at the car show at this hour stared on in astonishment, and Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo watched avidly. Hunter was so engrossed that he never would have seen them anyhow, so they stepped out to join the small crowd. At the forefront stood none other than John Pikes, the director, watching with a huge grin on his face, as if he were convinced it was all an enormous joke. When he saw them pause beside him, he beamed at Roarke, watched Hunter take down the thug again, and finally drew himself up straight. "The guy doesn't give up, does he? I'm gonna put a stop to this," he told Roarke confidently. "Be back." Roarke's brows popped up; Leslie and Tattoo both smirked as the director swaggered toward the fight.

"Oooo-kay, bud— _OOF!"_ Pikes croaked as Hunter, without bothering to look, slammed him in the gut, then whipped around and coldcocked him with such force that Pikes reeled backward and sprawled to the ground at Roarke's, Tattoo's and Leslie's feet. Tattoo jumped back, Leslie peered around her guardian, and Roarke simply watched the guy go down. Hunter, meantime, was too focused on defending himself even to notice what he'd just done, and kept on fighting.

Roarke helped a winded Pikes to his feet; Leslie gave him a hand as well, wondering how on earth the director's glasses had stayed on throughout the whole thing. Pikes was panting and trying to clutch his gut, but there was a genuinely impressed look on his face through the pain. "That guy's not faking it," he gasped. "He can still pack a wallop!"

Pikes was still rubbing his gut and fingering his jaw with delicate motions when Hunter at last threw the deciding punch that half knocked out his attacker. Grasping the sagging man by the upper arms, Hunter demanded, "All right, who put you up to this?"

Tattoo, overhearing, couldn't hold back any longer and strode ahead, waiting only for a _go-ahead_ nod from Roarke. "It was the boss's idea. You were fabulous, Mr. Hunter!" Roarke and Leslie helped Pikes come along behind him as Hunter let the thug collapse to the ground. The watching crowd, from both sides, began to gather in close.

"Thanks, Tattoo," Hunter said, looking a little confused and gazing around at the assembling people. Leslie and Tattoo grinned at each other.

Roarke turned to address their audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? This has been a special demonstration by one of your favorite actors, Mr. Burt Hunter, as Double Agent Simon Flynn, in real, live action!" The crowd broke into applause, along with Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie—who turned around and spotted Maggie standing nearby, looking a little worried. Roarke continued, "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen; enjoy yourselves!"

The first thug had picked himself up and was looking on, respect all over his face. "You're really something, Mr. Hunter," he remarked, putting out a hand; Hunter, smiling, shook, thanking him. The "thug" blew out a breath, grinned and departed.

As the crowd began to disperse, Pikes wedged himself in between Tattoo and Hunter, elbowing Leslie aside with a muttered, absentminded apology. "Burt, I'm convinced," Pikes blurted eagerly. "You've still got what it takes! Listen, I know a great plastic surgeon. He'll take a couple tucks here, a couple tucks there...we'll get at least two pictures for ya, huh?" Leslie rolled her eyes, thinking it was interesting how clear Pikes' speech was after being clocked in the jaw a mere few minutes before, and let out a skeptical little huff when she caught Roarke watching her in amusement.

Then Hunter said with a little smile, "Thanks, John, thank you very much, but I don't think so. I, uh...I have another script in mind for my next project." He met Roarke's gaze; Pikes, seeing this, turned around and peered at Roarke over his shoulder with mingled surprise and disbelief. "Excuse me," Hunter said politely, offered a last smile and slipped past them. Pikes stared after him, rubbing his jaw, blinking behind his oversized tinted glasses.

"Huh...after all I've done...man!" Pikes muttered in sheer befuddlement.

"It's what you wanted, Mr. Pikes," Leslie said, unable to keep from contributing her personal two cents, however ill-advised it might have been. "Now you can make Simon Flynn some goofy eighteen-year-old prodigy, like you wanted to in the first place."

Tattoo snickered and Roarke's brows popped up; Pikes just gave Leslie a hangdog look and slunk away, allowing the threesome to turn their attention to Hunter as he paused in front of Maggie and looked expectantly down at her. "Well, do I get my answer now?"

"Oh, yes!" Maggie exclaimed delightedly, and they embraced and kissed. Leslie caught sight of her guardian, whose expression was pleased—if perhaps also a little wry—and gave him a pat on the arm, surprising him into looking at her.

"You did good, Mr. Roarke," she assured him, and he let out a laugh, squeezing her.


	14. Chapter 14

§ § § - March 7, 1983

"Mr. Roarke!" Alex Weston hailed, waving at him before assisting Diana out of the rover. "How can we ever thank you?"

Tattoo's eyes popped and he stared at Roarke. "You mean, they found it? They're gonna live forever?" he exclaimed, looking honestly impressed—and, if Leslie was any judge, envious too.

But it was Alex who answered him. "We found it, Tattoo, but the price was just too high, so we passed."

Diana nodded. "We decided to stop worrying about when it's gonna end, and enjoy every moment of our love as it comes."

"I think you've made a very wise decision," Roarke approved, smiling. "Remember, a poet once said, 'Grow old with me...the best is yet to be.' "

Tattoo looked thoughtful, nodding to himself as Roarke and Leslie both exchanged goodbyes with the Westons and the couple headed for the charter. They returned the Westons' final waves of farewell, then turned to greet the next rover as it pulled to a stop in front of them.

Maggie Winslow piled out behind Burt Hunter and went right for them. "I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Roarke," she bubbled, shaking hands.

"That goes for me too," Hunter said. "It seems you've given me two careers...and a wife." He aimed a glance at Maggie, who giggled self-consciously.

"I hope you'll be very happy together," Roarke said, and they thanked him.

"And thank _you_ , partner," Hunter added, shaking Tattoo's hand as well; Tattoo, beaming, accepted the thanks and waved after the departing couple.

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other and then at Tattoo with interest. "Partner?" Leslie asked.

On Tattoo's proud nod, Roarke inquired, "Tattoo, are you going to act in Mr. Hunter's next picture?"

"No, boss, I thought about it, and I was gonna ask Mr. Hunter—how'd you know, anyway?—but I gave that idea up."

"Really!" said Roarke. "Why, I thought you had mapped out a promising career for yourself."

Tattoo shook his head. "Not after I found out what show business is all about. You know, I'm so glad we're on the outside. I don't think I can take all the pressure." Oblivious to Roarke's and Leslie's burgeoning grins, he added, "Besides, everything you see on the screen is fake! Nothing's real at all!"

"Everything?" Leslie repeated with a laugh. "Maybe so, but they work really hard to make all that fake stuff _look_ real."

"Indeed," Roarke said. "After all, my friend, sometimes it takes an illusion to make us appreciate reality." Tattoo eyed him with interest, absorbing that, and Roarke winked at Leslie before turning to deliver a final farewell wave.

§ § § - April 6, 2012

Roald and the triplets had found a good bit of humor in the Maggie Winslow/Burt Hunter fantasy, but Leslie could see from Christian's expression that he was still hung up on the Weston fantasy. When Roald and the children had stopped laughing and asking questions, he took the chance to speak up. "So exactly what was it about that pool, on that little island?" he wanted to know. "Was it eternal youth, or eternal life?"

"Both," Roarke said. "The case for proof of that was Maatira. She was perpetually young and beautiful throughout all the centuries the water in the pool kept her alive."

"And the waters brought Diana Weston back to life as well," Christian said slowly, his gaze unfocused and faraway. "When you recounted for us what you told Leslie about the 'legend' of the clan that could restore life..." Here he looked up and shot Roarke a wry look that made the latter man smile broadly. "It was all I could do not to say something. You didn't realize at the time that our clan did in fact exist?"

"As it happens, no," Roarke said. "You might wish to think back to the day when you first discovered you yourself had the clan power, almost a year ago now. You had brought Leslie back to life in some mysterious manner after she was attacked and her skull fractured, and I must admit that for the subsequent two days I quite nearly drove myself mad attempting to figure out just how such a thing could have occurred. You must remember that, till the day we brought Leslie home from the hospital and I began to consider that particular possibility, the clan that possessed that power had been thought to be extinct for several millennia. Until that moment, the clan had never even been heard from. So at the time that fantasy took place, and I told Leslie about the legend regarding them, I was certain that in fact that was all it was—a legend."

Christian nodded as if in slow motion, a thoughtful frown on his face. "So according to the information you were given about Maatira, the woman was something like 2200 years old—and you posited the theory that perhaps a clan member had tried to imbue a special small pool with the power." He quirked a brow for a second or two. "Leaving aside the implausibility that any such thing could succeed, let's focus on the assumption that your theory is fact. It would suggest two things: that the clan went extinct no more than those two millennia ago, give or take a few hundred years—according to assumption, of course—and also that somehow Maatira found a member of the clan and transported that person to her island along with anyone else she brought along."

Roarke regarded him with only a nod; for a moment they were quiet, and then Leslie's racing mind hit on something. "One doesn't necessarily follow the other," she said. "They could even be mutually exclusive." She read Christian's expression and focused on him. "It might be one or the other," she explained. "If the clan's supposed extinction occurred somewhere around the time that Maatira and those others found that island, then sure—she could somehow have found a member and then had him, or her, 'energize' the pool of Osiris so that it would restore and prolong life. But maybe that's not what happened. Maybe the clan member somehow stumbled over the island at some point after Maatira and her people arrived there—it could have been anytime. That would negate the idea that the clan was thought to be extinct for millennia."

"It would anyway," Christian broke in, getting into the spirit of the discussion. "The way Mr. Roarke explained it on the day Gerhard and I learned we were members of the clan, it sounded as if the assumption was that they died out long before the time period in which Maatira lived and found her island."

"No, not really," Leslie exclaimed, a memory occurring to her. "I remember it now—Father said they'd been thought to be gone for centuries, not millennia." She turned to Roarke while Christian sat gaping at her, frozen. "In fact, I even remember you told us your parents had actual memories of seeing a clan member applying the power—you said you believed they'd witnessed it."

"It was my belief, yes," Roarke said. "They spoke of it as they would have spoken of memories, rather than of assumptions or legends. But you have to remember that my own lifespan covers some three millennia, and my parents were alive far earlier than that. When I said 'centuries', I didn't specify the number of centuries the clan had been assumed to be extinct."

From his chair, Roald started laughing. "What an insane argument. You don't even know if that's how that pool got the power to give people immortality. I gotta tell you, Uncle Christian and Aunt Leslie, you're too close to the whole thing from living directly with the power every day. Mr. Roarke said, back then and just now, that it was only a theory. Even if it's true, how the heck are you gonna find out, and what would be the point of it anyway?"

Roarke laughed. "Prince Roald, I daresay you're gaining quite a bit of wisdom now that you've passed the first flush of youth," he teased, making Roald guffaw appreciatively. "He's correct, Christian and Leslie. It was a mere theory, and there's no true way to prove it."

"Is too," Leslie said impishly, smirking at her father. "We could time-travel back to that period, like we used to do for some fantasies you granted, and find out once and for all."

"And put ourselves in the same danger that Alex and Diana Weston did," Christian added in a dire tone. "No thank you, I think not. Perhaps some things are better left to mystery." He winked at his wife, who pretended to pout, and grinned, dropping a kiss on her lips and then checking his watch. "Ach, fate take us, look at the time. I'm afraid we'll have to call a halt to this little reminiscing party." He caught the triplets' aghast looks and shook his head. "Don't tell me about not having school tomorrow. I know you don't. But you keep forgetting that your grandfather doesn't have the same energy he did before he had to retire from running the resort and granting fantasies. We have to give him the chance to recharge."

"Like you're a big battery, Grandfather," Susanna offered with a giggle. "You have to go someplace else and plug yourself in."

"Something like that, Susanna," Roarke said, chuckling. "Don't worry, there will be other times when we can remember more fantasies. For now, your father is right. It's time to bring this session to a halt. The three of you, and your sister and your parents and all the rest of us, need to recharge as well. When we're able, we'll gather here and do this again."

Somewhat more than an hour later, with Roarke gone, Roald and his children back to the cottage they were renting for the year, and the triplets and Anastasia all tucked in bed for the night, Christian and Leslie paused to gaze into the night sky from the deck off their bedroom. "Sometimes it seems as if you'll never run out of fantasies to reminisce about," he commented softly. "Perhaps that's a good thing. I feel as if these reminiscing sessions are something of an anchor. In a way, it's much like telling stories around a campfire. We're building memories for the children, and we're giving ourselves the gift of time together, passing on recollections for the next generation to experience. I hope we can do this for a very long time yet—perhaps even after the children have their own children, many years from now."

Leslie smiled up at him and wrapped her arms around him. "Somehow I think we will," she mused. "And I'll bet Father would agree." Christian kissed the top of her head and enfolded her in his embrace, and they took in the beauty of the Milky Way floating on a sparkling path untold distances above their heads.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** _I thank everyone for the reviews, both new reviewers and longtime ones! I surprised myself rediscovering the fun of novelizing old "Fantasy Island" episodes, and while there are still more of them left to play with, I hope eventually to come up with new stories that take place during the time of the TV series. After compiling an original-airdate schedule of all the episodes, I noticed there were a great many open dates in all the seasons—the show was pre-empted for something else, maybe, or ABC decided to air a rerun instead—so those dates simply begged for filling up. I wrote so many original tales that I've just about used up all my own ideas (I have a couple or three left, so I may be able to develop them). If you loved FI and you have an idea you might once have wished the actual FI scriptwriters had worked with, by all means let me know! Once again, thanks to all my readers, and I promise, I'll be back with more tales, especially since in a few more months, it'll be the 40_ _th_ _anniversary of the premiere of FI as a regular TV series...time flies!_

§ § §

 _Episode Credits (in the order of appearance in this story):_

" _Devil Stick / Touch and Go": original airdate, March 19, 1983 … Cast: Georgia Engel as Susan Henderson; Bernie Kopell as Carter Ransom; Delta Burke as Gloria; Earl Bowen as Henry; Scott Thomson as Brian; Janis Paige as Brian's mother; Dean Butler as Carl Peters; Crystal Bernard as Hallie Miller; Ray Walston [1914 – 2001] as Mayor Miller; Thomas Byrd as Ethan Miller; Jay Ingram as the crossbow hunter; and Chuck Hicks as the sheriff_

" _The Birthday Party / Ghostbreaker": original airdate, March 3, 1979 … Cast: Janet Leigh [1927 – 2004] as Carol Gates; Skye Aubrey as Tracy Dearborn Miller; Christopher Stone [1942 – 1995] as Tom Dearborn; Pamela Toll as Jo Dearborn; Marc Bentley as Jamie Dearborn; Ken Berry as Elliott Fielding; Annette Funicello [1942 – 2013] as Edna Camberly; Larry Storch as Alan LeBlanc; Elaine Borden as Susan; Monica Gayle as Donna; Douglas V. Fowley [1911 – 1998] as Jacoby; and Ray Malavasi [1930 – 1987], Frank Corral and Anthony Davis as themselves_

" _The Proxy Billionaire / The Experiment": original airdate, March 21, 1981 … Cast: James Broderick [1927 – 1982] as Dr. Lucas Bergman; Laurie Walters as Lisa Bergman; Woody Strode [1914 – 1994] as Makalo; Robert Goulet [1933 – 2007] as Frank Miller and Avery Williams; Britt Ekland as Bernice Williams; Phyllis Davis [1940 – 2013] as Elizabeth Leston; and Troy Donahue [1936 – 2001] as Paul Yeager_

" _Eternal Flame / A Date with Burt": original airdate, March 5, 1983 … Cast: Sandra Dee [1942 – 2005] as Maggie Winslow; Ron Ely as Burt Hunter; David Landsberg as John Pikes; Terri Lynn as Pikes' assistant Yvonne; Tori Spelling as Christy; Linwood Boomer as Alex Weston; Randi Oakes as Diana Weston; Stella Stevens as Maatira; Alex Cord as Ra-Mas; and Dave Cass as the first thug. Note: I used both the actual taped episode and the original script for the dialogue in this adaptation._


End file.
